Arthur Leywin

I maneuvered through a stone-shed battlefield, leading a strike team of able-bodied golems to assault the enemy position from their flank. The march up the hill was a slow and painful slog, made only worse by the slippery blood-like substance coating the ground and the stench of iron and copper that suffused my nostrils.

As per my plan earlier, the majority of our troops were focused on a dual-pronged assault from two different avenues on the lower part of the hill. With so many of my ally golems focused on that front, it drew the attention of the majority of our enemies.

But they still held the high ground. For every bit of blood we spilled, they shed twice the amount. The only way to win was to take this hill with minimal losses.

So me and a select few elite golems, each bearing the symbol of the tri-union Council of Dicathen, were moving to flank their overstretched side. I stood at the vanguard, wielding Dawn’s Ballad high as a rallying point. The golems above were aware of my trudging assault, but with our momentum, there wasn’t much they could do.

A few glancing spells arced toward my troops. I trusted the elites at my flank to tank the weaker ones, their shields raising intermittently to defend against blades of earth and spears of ice.

A larger fireball caught my attention, however. I spotted it as it arced toward my small, compressed unit, recognizing the damage it would do if it landed. I flourished Dawn’s Ballad, condensing a wave of ice and lightning mana through its length. Then I swung my blade upward, the teal weapon flashing white as it erupted in crackling frost.

A wave of cold interspersed with arcing electricity consumed the massive fireball, continuing onward and disrupting the golem formation above. Sensing our chance, I raised Dawn’s Ballad high, my blood pounding in my ears.

“Charge!” I yelled, letting my voice spread with the help of wind magic. “Rip into their sides!”

As one, a score of earthen feet slammed into the ground, a cascading reverse avalanche aimed at the heart of the enemy formation. As I streamed along on currents of wind, I imagined the fear in my enemy’s eyes.

It wasn’t there, of course. Wren was a meticulous old bastard, but as realistic as he could make his golems, these always lacked something fundamentally human.

But as I reached the top, I felt a familiar burning flare from the hilt of my sword. A stretch of orange-purple striations snaked their way up the tang of my translucent teal sword, bringing a light warmth to my hands as Dawn’s Ballad reacted.

Internally, I sighed in annoyance. Every single time this happened–and it had been picking up in frequency these past few weeks–Wren would halt my training entirely for a few days to perform tests on my sword. And of course, the wily asura wouldn’t tell me what he was testing for.

Predictably, every single golem stalled in place as one, creating a bubble of what looked like halted time. I alone still moved; the adrenaline rush and expectation of colliding forces simmering at the surface of my mind. That battle rush was something that I carried with me whenever I fought like this: the echo of steel-on-steel, spellfire arcing overhead, lightning spells coursing through the air making my hair stand on end.

But then something different happened. The low burn of the hilt of Dawn’s Ballad became that of a branding iron as it ramped up heat. Suddenly, the orange-purple streaks billowed upward, chasing away the teal and filling it in with color. I hastily thrust the blade into the ground, darting my hand away lest I get burned.

This was different than last time. For the first time, I could feel the power wafting off of the thing. It felt strange and alien to my mana sense; brushing against my mind like a feathertip.

Wren popped up from the ground a moment later, an almost maddened cast to his eyes as he zipped over to my sword.

At least more maddened than was usual.

“What is this?” he questioned, circling my embedded weapon and ignoring me entirely. “She’s done something different, this time. Cast a powerful spell, maybe? No, that doesn’t seem quite right. Certainly used more power than we normally see, but what?”

Wren Kain the IV, eminent Titan of the asura and my master for the past few months, devolved into muttering and mumbling as he whipped out a notepad and began jotting things down.

“Output is notably high. Increased by at least one thousand, four hundred and sixteen percent from the norm. But the waves emanating from the blade aren’t uniform in their distribution as before. This seems more chaotic. Perhaps some sort of untested spell?”

“Wren,” I said warily, feeling tired of all this.

The asura didn’t seem to hear me, tapping his pen against his chin as he scrutinized the sword closer. It was glowing now with a strange sheen, seeming to mimic the scattering effects of light through the clouds during a sunset. “This seems to be done with intention. If I gather the right data points, I might be able to track the point of origin…”

“Wren!” I snapped, my patience thinning. “What in the hells is going on with my sword?!”

The asura blinked, then turned to me as if noticing me for the first time. “Oh, this? It's none of your business,” he said, shoving his hand into a pocket and retrieving another pen of a different color. “This is all very much beyond your control right now, brat.”

I ground my teeth. I knew it wasn’t wise to test my mentor, but if this were to keep happening, my training would stall immensely. “Every time Dawn’s Ballad glows with those colors, you halt my training for days at a time,” I said, trying to be reasonable. “I think it is part of my business if I’m constantly made to wait every time this happens without explanation.”

The asura opened his mouth to reply. “Do you lessers always make such a big deal of these things?” he asked with a groan. “All I needed you to do is hold onto that sword of yours. It’s more receptive to signals in your hands because you’re bonded to it. That good enough for you?”

I crossed my arms, raising a brow that told him, No, it’s not good enough for me.

“I’m here to train to be able to protect my loved ones,” I said. “If my training keeps getting interrupted, then I’m not doing the best I can. At least tell me why.”

The asura shoved his hands into his hair, clawing at his roots for a moment as he swiveled, groaning in irritation. “Why must you make good arguments, Arthur Leywin? All the other lessers I’ve had the displeasure of meeting were sniveling brats. Much better, in my opinion.”

He turned around again, a spark of something in those old eyes. “There’s this woman, see,” he started. “From way back when.”

Truthfully, I didn’t know what I was expecting. But it was certainly not that. My eyebrows rose high enough that they probably met my hairline and my jaw gaped. This was about a woman? The asura seemed to realize what he’d just said, his expression shifting.

“Shut that lesser mouth of yours, Arthur Leywin!” he said, glowering at me. “You’ll fill it with flies at that rate. Which might be better.” He waved a hand. “Anyways, her name was–is–Aurora. Flighty old phoenix with a habit of trying to look as unbothered as good old Lord Indrath.”

I slowly let my mouth close with a click. “What do you mean was?” I asked, sensing his focus on that word.

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Wren turned back to the glowing sword in the ground, a strange slouch to his shoulders. “I told you I made Dawn’s Ballad as a one-sword-fits-all weapon. But that was a lie.” The asura paused. “I made that sword for her,” he said quietly. “It’s what I’m good at. Making weapons. Only thing I could do to try and impress her.” The asura seemed to be talking more to himself than to me at this point.

He shook his head, his long bedraggled locks swaying. “But I never finished the product. She vanished with her brother years ago somewhere in the Beast Glades for some unfathomable reason. Never figured out why. But I’d already put the work in, so I left the sword there, hoping she’d find it.”

“I thought she was dead,” he said honestly, the golems around us finally dissolving back into earth mana. Wren continued to stare at the orange-purple blade. “Until your sword started shining, reacting to her actions.”

He brushed a hand against the matte-black hilt of Dawn’s Ballad. I was surprised when it came back burned. The asura seemed to gather himself, slowly putting his insincere mask back on.

The asura turned back to me. “But that doesn’t matter to your training, does it, brat?” His eyes squinted. “If you want to throw that squishy flesh puppet of yours at rocks all day, be my guest. Far from me to stop you from making your already short lesser life shorter.”

He ripped Dawn’s Ballad from the ground, then conjured another sword from the earth around us, tossing it to me. “Your training won’t be impeded anymore. Feel free to smash rocks again.”

I barely had time to process the asura’s revelations before the golems reformed around me, masking the asura from my sight. I thought I saw a single tear leave his eye as he stared at the sword, but I couldn’t be sure.

Darrin Ordin

I took each step forward numbly, piloting my own body by force of will. My fists clenched and unclenched at my sides as I walked through the sparsely populated street.

Dima had been sequestered in my estate with the best surgeons and caregivers that I could afford. But while I was certain she would live, the professionals I spoke to theorized she would never wake up again. There was nothing they could do except keep her body alive. As one nurse had stated, she was astounded the mother of my child was even alive.

I ground my teeth, keeping my eyes ahead. For all my adult life, I’d thrust myself into conflicts between highbloods and unblooded mages, providing them legal help and support where nobody else would. Throughout my several-decade career, I’d never desired to be a highblood.

They were too self-righteous. Too sure of their power. Too comfortable with using it on others.

But for the first time in my life, I found myself desperately wishing I was one of those strutting nobles. They had the resources I lacked. The medical facilities Dima needed to wake up.

I found my mind routing back to Toren Daen, a building, bitter anger sparking at the thought of the young mage.

I had thought I’d found a kindred spirit; one who cared for those beneath his station. I’d deluded myself into seeing it with every desperate struggle he made in that hellish zone. I’d convinced myself he cared when Hofal told me his story.

I thought I’d found someone like me, who was willing to stand up to the powers-that-be. But instead of selfless drive, Lord Daen was fueled by guilt. Guilt from all the people he’d dragged to their deaths.

But not guilty enough to keep himself away from the Tombs. He was the worst kind of man: the kind that felt remorse for their actions, but refused to change in the wake of their carnage.

My knuckles still ached from where they’d struck the young mage’s skull, the little bones in my hand cracked and crushed from the impact.

I took a deep breath as I walked, trying to force my killing intent back into my body. I couldn’t afford to think of such horrid things right now. Not with what I was about to do.

I finally arrived in front of my destination, looking up at the sign with nervous eyes. The sign at the entrance was clear enough in its words, but part of me still struggled to string them together.

With an exhale, I entered the building. I navigated my way to a reception desk easily enough, and the young woman at the counter looked up at me with a pitying expression.

I brushed that off. I knew I didn’t look my best today. I had barely taken the time to brush my hair this morning, but the deep circles under my eyes and signs of exhaustion and grief hadn’t vanished in the last day or so.

“I’m here on behalf of somebody,” I said, my own words feeling alien as I forced them out. “Dima Varigan. She went on an ascent not long ago, and was…” I forced the next words out. “Wounded. She’s unable to come here herself.”

The receptionist put a hand to her mouth as she gasped. “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that! It happens far too often to the good folks. Dima was a kind woman.”

She was.

The woman’s face took on a more pinched expression. “But I’m afraid we can’t let you in here without explicit permission from the legal guardian. I can check to see if you’re added--”

“Check,” I said, my voice coming out harsher than intended. “My name is Darrin Ordin.”

The woman’s eyes widened at my name, but she quickly got to work sifting through their records.

“Aha,” she said, reading over a sheet of paper with a sparkle in her eye. “It says here that in case Dima Varigan is unable to resume her normal duties, Darrin Ordin is authorized to act in her stead.” The woman looked up at me, giving what she probably thought was an encouraging smile. “I can take you to her right now if you wish!”

I nodded. “Yes, please,” I said.

The woman stood up, moving around the desk before gesturing for me to follow.

As we walked, the carefree laughter of children brushed against my ears from a dozen rooms. Sparing them a glance, I saw young boys and girls playing to their hearts’ content, pretending to be mana beasts or ascenders or whatever new thing they’d heard in the stories.

How long would that innocence last? I wondered dourly. How long can these children cling to their naivete in this horrid world?

My own upbringing had been surprisingly dull. I’d been raised on an old farm in the countryside of Sehz-Clar which bordered Etril. My parents taught me the traditional values of working the land and caring for one’s neighbor. Far from any urban highlord influence, I was able to truly develop as a person.

People are like the ground beneath your feet, Darry, my late mother had always said. Show them kindness and warmth with a bit of sunlight, and you never know what might grow.

If only she had been right, this continent wouldn’t be such a hellhole. Too often it wasn’t flowers or wheat that sprouted under altruism but weeds and strangling roots.

The receptionist stopped in front of a specific room, and then knocked on the door. A moment later, the weary-looking teacher of that room responded, opening the door to reveal a wide classroom with many desks arranged in a layered pattern. From a cursory glance, I could spot a dozen children looking toward the door with undisguised curiosity.

“Yes?” the teacher asked. The bags under his eyes were nearly as dark as my own, and his scruffy brown hair was thinning in patches.

“One of the parents of your students was wounded in a recent ascent,” the receptionist said quietly so only the teacher could hear. “We’ve got an emergency contact here hoping to pick her up.”

The teacher blinked, then looked at me with a tired gaze. “The name?”

“Penny Varigan,” I said, responding in place of the receptionist. I hesitated. “Is she here?”

The teacher slowly nodded. “Pen’s a good lass. It’s a shame her mother can’t make it. Dima was almost always here for her events and showcases. Not enough parents do that.”

I grunted quietly in response, feeling quiet shame for not being able to say the same.

The weary man looked me up and down again, before turning toward the classroom. “Pen?” he called. “Can you come up here? There’s someone here to meet you.”

I held my breath as I heard shuffling in the room. The kids in the room moved to allow someone past, but I couldn’t see who they were from my point of view.

But once she cleared the line, I knew immediately it was Pen. She had her mother’s hair: a darker, dirtier shade of blonde than my own. Her features were like her mother’s as well. She had a smaller nose that I immediately identified as Dima’s. Her brows seemed just as expressive as my old lover's.

But then the girl looked up, anxious.

The breath I was holding left my lungs in a silent wheeze as her eyes met mine. They were a bright, piercing green.

My eyes. I could see Dima everywhere in the girl’s features, but the eyes could only be mine.

I put on a watery smile, trying to project my usual confidence. I was beaten, battered, and had more than my fair share of bruises under my wrinkled shirt, but if this little girl needed to see an invincible ascender, that was what I would be.

The girl hid behind the teacher’s leg, looking out at me shyly.

Merciful Vritra, I thought. Even her shyness is like Dima’s.

I knelt down so I was closer to her height, hoping to draw the child out more. “Hey, Pen,” I said, hoping I sounded encouraging. “My name’s Darrin.” I paused as the young girl peeked out with more open curiosity. Those green eyes were like a mirror of my own. “And I have some news for you.”

[End of Book 2: Twinsoul]