Toren Daen

The echoing boom of the massive hardwood doors closing behind Varadoth mirrored the thunder of his heartfire. The highbloods in attendance pulled themselves to their feet one by one in a collective daze. I saw one man wearing a mask that bore an exaggerated feather wobble as he stood, his bright white suit bearing prominent marks of sweat. Another woman stumbled into her lover, and he nearly went down again.

And as people gradually came to their senses, more than a few hastily scrambled to the doors, trying to escape the ballroom. What had once felt so tall and grand had become claustrophobic and looming as Varadoth’s power tainted the light.

Corbett’s olive hair was in disarray as he squared himself, his breath shuddering. He spared me a glance, one that asked a hundred questions but had played a long game of keeping those to himself.

I didn’t know what I should say. Apologize? Ask to leave myself? I was in just as much of a scattered daze as the nobles who watched me like I was radioactive.

Instead, the man displayed a level of self-control I found enviable. He smoothed his bangs back into their typical part, straightened his jacket, and raised a glass to the air, calling the attention of all who remained at the Denoir ball.

“I think we’ve had more than enough excitement for the week,” he said, his voice barely wavering. As he spoke to the crowd more, it became steadier and steadier. “First an... Impactful performance from our friend, Lord Toren Daen, and then a surprise interruption by the Voice of the Sovereigns himself. We should count ourselves honored to have experienced these events together!” he said, his voice amplified by some sort of sound artifact.

“But the night ticks on! All of us are a little tired by now. So let us relax and dance!”

As Corbett announced the start of the masquerade ball, I tiredly loped toward the long tables bearing refreshments. Mages parted around me as if I were Noah and they were the Red Sea. I tried to decipher the emotions entrenched in their mana signatures, but there wasn’t much conscious thought. Everyone was rattled, and though the best of the best had quickly assessed the situation, many reacted on pure instinct when seeing my beeline for the tables.

Have I truly accomplished anything tonight? I asked myself as I braced myself on the white table. My eyes inspected the tablecloth, tracing the threads on the pristine cloth. Intricate patterns wove themselves out of seemingly nothing, coming together to form something admittedly beautiful. Varadoth changed everything I tried today. My music had an effect, but how will my confrontation with the High Vicar taint their perceptions of what I tried to show them?

I thought of Varadoth’s words. His pierced eye sockets seemed to yawn ever wider in my mind’s eye. “Through perception, power is leveraged. And through power, self is enforced,” the High Vicar quoted, a blackness seeping from those words. How did these people perceive me now? If I wanted to push my ideals, did I need to be the Named Blood musician? And would my message be altered if I was seen as a pillar of strength? As High Vicar Varadoth dubbed it, a man with a soul?

I grabbed an ornate wine bottle from the table and a clear glass nearby. I noticed a few other highbloods following suit, though the area around me was empty as the space between the Relictombs and the real world. I poured a glass slowly, watching the deep red liquid gradually fill the glass. Like blood streaming from the edges of an eye socket.

I felt a phantom hand brushing my back comfortingly. I closed my eyes at Aurora’s soothing gesture, though I could not see her through the Unseen World. She offered no words, simply because I wasn’t in a place to receive them. I needed to process this before I could even begin to hear anything more.

I tilted back the glass of deep red wine, letting the soothing liquid trail down my throat. I didn’t savor it sip by sip as would’ve been proper. Instead, I gulped it like a drowning man. I felt the warmth settle in my stomach, but I knew it would have barely any effect. My body was far too strong to be even phased by this level of alcohol.

I set the glass back down, looking at the empty bottom. The action had centered me somewhat, allowing my thoughts to flow smoothly. Around me, nobles streamed to the dance floor in alternating waves. A few men were playing soft music over the venue, something Highlord Denoir and Renea Shorn had agreed upon in their negotiations. I was not to play my music for the actual ball.

I noticed as someone approached me from the side, both with heartfire and mana sense. I turned to see Highlord Renton Morthelm, the large man giving me a complicated look. I was aware of the eyes watching us, but unlike before, I didn’t have the energy to try and put up pretenses.

“When I asked you how you planned to rock the boat,” he said gruffly but not unsympathetically, “I didn’t realize this was what you had in mind.”

I gently set the glass back down on the table. A servant would be by eventually to take it away. “I’ll be honest,” I said with an exhale of breath, “neither did I. The music was all I had planned.”

Morthelm nodded slowly. “I find myself intrigued by the music you played,” he said. “You seemed quite open about what it was. And Highlord Patamoor’s artifact didn’t even fire, but I’m certain I felt my emotions being altered. Why was that?”

I furrowed my brow, confused for a moment. I’d explained this to Lord Morthelm before, hadn’t I? How my intent-based music functioned? But as I looked past the man’s mask, I recognized something crucial.

Aurora saw the same. He might not understand your final motive, she thought, sounding slightly shocked, But he’s figured out you wish the methods to spread. He’s giving you an opening to explain.

I smirked tiredly. “Every mage can sense mana signatures,” I started. “And even nonmages can feel the effects of mana. But there’s far more to mana signatures than most people know,” I said. “The bluntest application of this is killing intent. You enforce and spread your mana signature through the air, weaving your emotions and confidence through it. I’ve grown attuned to these hidden aspects of mana signatures and can alter my own at will. With some help, of course.” I clenched my hand tightly. “Highlord Patamoor’s artifact failed to activate because I wasn’t invading his mind. It’s no different from me speaking aloud and the words being interpreted through your brain.”

“So any mage can learn this skill?” Morthelm pressed. The attentive men and women around me seemed to lean even closer as he posed the ultimate question.

I nodded. “It takes practice, of course, but you can. One must learn the subtle intricacies of their own mana signatures and subconscious intent, but it’s entirely possible, regardless of your runes.”

Morthelm nodded sagely, opening his mouth to say something when a familiar woman strode toward me in a deep olive dress. Her plain silver mask matched her husband’s, and when Lenora Denoir offered me her milky white hand, I felt a renewed dread in the pit of my stomach.

“Lord Daen,” she said imperiously, “I do not believe you have been inducted into the dance floor. Seeing as you are our guest, it is only right that I show you the hospitality of the Denoirs.”

I looked at that hand like it was the jaws of a venomous snake, but as I chanced a glance around, I realized I had no reason to refuse. I bowed slightly, then took Highlady Denoir’s hand in my own. It was surprisingly rough. “Thank you for the offer, Highlady Denoir,” I said, trying to mask the tired wariness suffusing my bones. “I’ve been privileged all throughout the night to be your guest.”

Lenora didn’t immediately answer, instead linking her arm with my own as she half-dragged my reluctant form toward the dance floor. A medium-paced rhythm was playing at the moment, and though eyes turned to us as we entered the floor, they were considerably more relaxed. Dancing did loosen the collective tension in the room.

Highlady Denoir and I began a simple back-and-forth dance as the music played, my hand resting near her upper back in a conservative manner. As the music went on, I sensed the looming topic on her tongue. Why she had pulled me into this in the first place.

“Of all the interruptions a Denoir ball has experienced,” she said at last as we stepped to the side, “Never before has the High Vicar himself intruded. It sets an uncertain precedent, especially since it appeared his sole focus was a man unknown to most of Alacrya before today.”

Lenora’s words struck a chord in me. She was right. Tomorrow, most of Alacrya’s upper class would know my name. I expected it to happen more gradually as my music spread, and I had trouble grasping the full implications such a splash would make.

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Lenora’s feet began to move faster. While I was in the position of lead, I struggled to match her steps. I wasn’t a practiced dancer, and only my heightened reflexes and sense of footwork allowed me to keep up. An aggressiveness bled into her every step. A silent demand coursed. I chose to stay silent.

Lenora’s question built and built and built in her. I could almost feel it, rising to the surface like a bubble in a pond. “Where is my son, Lord Daen?” she finally asked. “He has accompanied you in every major event you have attended so far, even at the risk of involving himself in politics. Yet on this day, he does not appear. He has vanished from all our reports. Gone underground in a way we cannot follow. And now I hear that you clashed with the Vicar of Plague with companions.”

Lenora’s eyes were so taut I thought they would break. “Where is my son, Lord Daen?” she demanded again, all political pretense gone. It had been weathered away under the stresses of the night. Chipped at by my music, battered by Varadoth’s abrupt entrance, and finally broken by his offhand comment about Mardeth’s promise to finish what he started.

I exhaled, closing my eyes. “I can’t tell you,” I finally said. Lenora’s nails dug into my arm. “He would never forgive me if I did.”

“He hurt himself,” she scoffed lightly, but her intent carried something other than disdain or disgust. “I always knew he would. He rushes headlong into danger, uncaring about himself or what his actions may cause. I’ve tried and tried and tried to pull him back, but he never listens. And now he’s wounded, isn’t he? Bad enough that he refuses even to visit anymore. He should have listened.”

Lenora’s quiet tirade washed over me as what I suspected were years of built-up worry and tension battered me. She quietly lamented his absence, his refusal to talk, and his distance. And over the air, I sensed her quiet grief.

When it was done, the highblood woman was nearly in tears. Through it all, she’d expertly continued the dance, moving as if by clockwork. She seemed to belatedly realize what exactly she’d just said, for her arms tensed and she prepared to speak. “Forgive me, I–”

“He never told you why he avoids you, did he?” I asked softly. “And that’s why it hurts so much.”

For the first time in our waltz, Lenora Denoir missed a step. She didn’t speak.

I considered what I could say. As the woman had unknowingly vented her frustrations to me, I gradually realized that Sevren’s one-sided depiction of Lenora was not all there was to her. He thought she was simply a manipulator out to sink her claws into him.

And I remembered Sevren’s parting words to me before entering the Relictombs. That if she pushed too hard, to use the name of Abigale as a blunt weapon. But that wasn’t what I would do. I would use it as a bridge instead. “He remembers Abigale,” I said softly. Lenora almost recoiled as I uttered the words. I sensed another familiar mana signature approaching, the power muffled and indistinct. “And he believes it can–it will–happen to anyone,” I said, quietly nodding to the approaching Caera Denoir. “That is why he does what he does. Because he thinks it will happen again.”

I gently extracted myself from the shell-shocked Highlady Denoir. Her eyes were blown wide beneath her mask as she looked at me, and she made no move to pull me back into the waltz as I carefully backed away. I bowed lightly. “Thank you for the dance and the talk, Highlady Denoir,” I said honestly. “I hope we both learned something tonight that can help us in the future,” I added genuinely. Conflict resolution started with understanding, and neither Lenora nor Sevren understood each other. I’d come to this ball to plant a seed of knowing in all present, and I hoped I had succeeded in leaving an even deeper root that would grow into a bridge.

Caera halted in her steps as she saw the reaction of her adoptive mother. I suspected she had been ready to intervene in case Lenora managed to outright corner me again, but now that I’d extracted myself, she seemed unsure.

I pulled myself higher as I walked to the edge of the dance floor, feeling even more wrung out. Caera surreptitiously followed.

Where the Highlord and Highlady’s masks were silver, hers was a darker crimson. The adopted daughter of the Denoirs wore a sleek red dress that fit her form tightly. It had light frills along the seams that drew the eyes, and dark filigree lined the cuffs. The gown clung close to her upper body in a way that accentuated her form. Not entirely in a sensual way, though I certainly found it attractive. It was closer to the tight fit of fighting garb that allowed freedom of movement and the grace of flowing strikes. If Caera needed to fight, she would be unimpeded by her attire. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Lenora so… unsettled,” Caera said uncertainly as she stood by my side, observing the dance floor critically. She turned to look at me. “Did you tell her what happened to my brother?”

I exhaled. “No,” I said honestly. “I told her something that probably drove deeper into her bones than that.”

The silence that followed was awkward as yet another Denoir woman worked up the courage to ask a looming question. “Sevren followed you to confront Mardeth, didn’t he?” she said, reasoning the same conclusion as Lenora. “That’s how he was hurt. And now he’s researching something related to the Vicar of Plague.”

I rubbed the bridge of my nose, the stresses of the day that had piled on demanding my back to bend. I was so tired. “Yes,” I said. I clenched my fist, enveloping the two of us in a sound barrier. “But he’s found a way to keep himself locked away from all of your mother’s probing without consequences. I… I tried to talk to him about it, but he wouldn’t listen,” I said, slouching for the first time as I remembered how poorly our last conversation had gone.

“And your aether abilities couldn’t heal him?” Caera whispered quietly, sidling a bit closer and glaring at anyone that looked at us too long. She took the opportunity to link her arm with mine, making sure I couldn’t get out of this so easily.

I groaned. Why did every woman I interacted with have to be so deathly intelligent? Life would be so much easier if people were clueless sometimes.

“My arts are far more effective on myself,” I finally said with a blunt tone. “Using them on other people has reduced results. Maybe one day I’ll be able to fully heal him, but right now I think he’s almost glad for the injury he received,” I said with a hint of anger. “Because it provides justification for something he’s wanted to do for so long.”

Caera looked at me sadly. “He’s shutting everything out,” she said.

I nodded. “I’m going to keep pushing him to talk with at least you,” I said. “One doesn’t know how precious their bonds are until they are lost. He doesn’t understand that yet. Not fully.”

Caera nodded in understanding. I opened my mouth to say something more, but then a flash of something floral and spiced caught my nose. My slouch vanished in an instant as my mind became more alert. My eyes darted around the room, unable to find the source.

The adoptive daughter of the Denoirs noticed my change. Her fingers brushed her dimension ring as she subconsciously prepared for combat, covertly unlinking our arms. She shifted slightly in her sleek red dress, and I suddenly had no doubt it was designed for battle in mind. “What is it?” she asked conspiratorially, trying to track what I sensed. “What do you sense? Is it Varadoth again? You were the only one who noticed him coming at first.”

I caught a flash of dark hair streaked with navy in the milling highblood guests before it disappeared from my sight: a glimpse of pale skin and a dark fur mantle before it was swallowed by the crowd.

Caera focused on me, then brought a delicate hand to her lips as she chuckled. “Oh,” she said teasingly. “Not the kind of battle I was expecting.” Her white teeth flashed with mirth.

That scent was drifting away, and I felt myself itching to follow. I looked at Caera, whose eyes sparkled with amusement. “Go on,” she said with faux dismissiveness. “Find your lady friend, Lord Daen. I wish you luck. I’ll simply have to find another man to dance with tonight.”

I coughed with a bit of embarrassment into my fist, feeling my face flush slightly. “Yeah,” I said. “I’ll do that.”

As I turned away, my enhanced hearing barely picked up Caera’s muttered words. “I have someone I need to chase, too.”

I set off from the corner of the ballroom, tracing where I’d last seen that barest glimpse. I couldn’t sense my quarry as I weaved through startled highbloods. My fingers tingled as I pulled on my mana, circulating it through my body and into my nose.

For a flash, I sensed Aurora’s disapproval. I lurched midstep as I remembered her misgivings, but then the phoenix did something I hadn’t expected.

She let herself go distant, our tether becoming more and more indistinct. She wasn’t rejecting me or pushing me away. No, she was giving me space. Why? I wondered absently, remembering her last words.

You need to relax tonight, she begrudgingly admitted, her voice distant and airy. It would be unbecoming of me to deny you that.

I felt a smile curve on my lips as I inhaled. Scents washed through my nose. The sweat of unnerved highbloods. The grape-red aroma of aged wine. The oiled steel of the perimeter guards. And a hundred different perfumes and colognes mixing together into a cloying scramble.

But one stood out from them all. As I enhanced my senses, I could tell it wasn’t just floral. There were hints of a familiar drink seeping throughout. I followed the undertones of Redwater tea through the milling highbloods, uncaring whether they shied away from me or not.

I caught a flash of dark hair once more before Highlord Patamoor’s body blocked the way. I took a step forward, intent on what was past him. Justul, however, shuddered visibly as I approached. “Lord Daen,” he said shakily, taking a step backward. “I– I wish you well on–”

He tripped on a few nobles behind him, causing him to cry out in alarm as he fell over. I blinked as I realized what I’d inadvertently done.

I felt something brush my back, slow and graceful as it traveled up toward my neck with a delicate touch. I shivered involuntarily. Suddenly the scent of tea flowers was overwhelmingly close. My vision swam as it enveloped me, my mana-enhanced physique not ready for the sudden deluge. I nearly drowned in the aroma before it suddenly retreated again, leaving me shaking. I inhaled sharply through my mouth, gasping as I turned creakily.

The perfume simmered in the opposite direction. I walked slower this time as I followed the trail, a quiet worry of being overwhelmed again holding my thoughts. I became more methodical and confident as I wove through the crowds. More sure of myself and my step as I passed the many dancing nobles.

And I finally reached the end. A smaller door led out onto a spanning balcony, the late spring air just cool enough to be crisp. I cautiously opened the door, marveling at the wide expanse of stars beaming down from above. The moon was full in the sky, its reflected light spreading the balcony in misty silver that stole my breath.

Standing near the railing was Renea Shorn.