Seris Vritra

The mana in the air burned in the aftermath of a fight, lingering wisps of spellfire and disturbance wafting through the space around. All through the city of Fiachra, trace fires burned hotly, a greenish-red gas settling against the stones like mold against a foundation.

I’d need to address that later. Right now, my priority was the source of the battle that had raged across Fiachra. I approached the Doctrination Temple of East Fiachra at speed as I forced myself to move faster and faster, a quiet hope in the depths of my core that I was not too late.

For the barest moment, I hovered over the dilapidated temple rooftop. I inhaled, a small weave of dread coursing through my veins. The levels of power that had been thrown around–that I could sense, lingering in the atmosphere–were enough to put even me on guard.

The battle had already ended. I could only hope for the identity of the victor.

I slowly descended through a break in the roof, scanning the wide expanse of the temple. I traced a path of battle up to the altar, where–

Toren Daen leaned against the altar along the raised centerpiece of the temple, not an ounce of mana detectable from his core. His entire form was caked in blood, dirt, and cuts, the once-proud symbol of Named Blood Daen ripped to shreds over his chest. His hair had managed to escape his neat ponytail, leaving it in a wild disarray.

But when we locked eyes, I was forcefully wrenched back to that time not a day past along the balcony of the Denoir’s ball. Where this young man told me of the wonders that were beyond even Agrona Vritra’s reach in entrancing detail. Of the things the High Sovereign’s greedy malice could never touch.

His eyes widened perceptibly as they held me in place. “Renea?” he asked, the word slow and weak.

For all I had expected and planned for this moment–where I would eventually reveal the true face beneath my cloaking artifact to the man before me so that I might tie him to my plans–I found that I did not know how to respond. As Toren’s burning eyes asked–no, demanded–an answer to his question, I realized he’d torn away another mask. Ripped apart another veil that kept me obscured, long before I could withdraw it when I was ready.

Just like he had an irritating tendency to do with every single one of our interactions.

But then he collapsed, toppling toward the altar stairs. On instinct, I blurred forward, catching his unconscious body before it could tumble down the steps. He felt strangely warm; as if his entire body were in the grips of fever, yet he showed no other signs of distress.

Foolish woman, I chastised myself as I realized what had happened. I had not taken the time to think. You are not Renea Shorn right now. You are Seris Vritra.

As I held the Daen man’s limp body, I smothered the burgeoning vulnerability that Renea Shorn bore for him, pulling myself away from the mask. I exhaled, adopting the clinical precision I needed to perform my tasks.

I hovered up the steps, resting Lord Daen’s body on the altar. I performed a cursory inspection of his form, noting that he had no visible wounds. Only his mana was utterly depleted.

It appears he is merely suffering from backlash, I thought, inspecting the many cuts Toren had over his clothes. The flesh underneath had presumably healed over under the effect of his orange-purple light of aether. That is good. He will be well soon.

I turned my focus away from the young man, instead looking up at what was left of the Vicar of Plague.

I hovered forward, feeling a pit of anger rise in my stomach as I looked over the shriveled, decrepit body. What lay before me would not have been out of place in the deepest dungeons of Taegrin Caelum. The grotesque mutilations across Mardeth’s body spoke of the horrible things he had done to himself, open wounds where large boils had presumably burst littering his skin. What was once simple gray skin had been mottled with deep green, adding to his shriveled features.

Outwardly, I displayed no sign of my irritation. I had grown far too adept at hiding that. But inwardly, I seethed.

I did not expect him to move so soon, I thought, my eyes roving over Mardeth’s mangled corpse. I predicted a much later date of attack. The groundwork I laid in this city was entirely unprepared to withstand his assault so early.

As I’d realized the Vicar of Plague’s odd obsession with Toren Daen, I’d begun to set up countermeasures and defenses throughout Fiachra, expecting an eventual attack. But I’d been expecting an assault in a couple of months at least, not so soon. Mardeth had outmaneuvered me; outmaneuvered each piece I’d set down.

Except for one.

A grim, dark part of myself acknowledged that the vicar’s ability to evade all my plots burgeoned my anger higher than nearly anything else. The sense that I had somehow lost in this battle of minds made a deep, repressed part of myself–a part I’d tried to bury and condemn since the war between Vechor and Sehz-Clar–rise up in fury.

My eyes settled on the instrument which had seemingly finished the vicar’s machinations for good. A long horn glowed a brilliant white where it had staked through Mardeth’s heart, striations of orange and purple running like veins along its surface.

I couldn’t sense anything from it. No mana flowed from that strange horn belonging to a creature I could not recognize. Yet looking at it seemed to sear my eyes, burning them in a way I couldn’t describe.

What is this? I wondered, hovering closer. I rested my hand along the base, pulling my hand back in surprise when it burned me. The flesh of my skin sizzled and smoked from where I’d touched it. It reacts with my mana. No, with my blood. Fascinating.

I frowned slightly. What have you done outside my expectations now, Lord Daen? I wondered, thinking of all the innumerable unseen variables he had caused. Like a cascading waterfall of trickle-down effects, everywhere Toren Daen stepped became a breeding ground of uncertainty.

I grasped the horn, wrenching it free from Mardeth’s body. The vicar’s corpse stayed glued to the tall Vritra mosaic behind him, the skin seeming to adhere to the stones even in the absence of the stake.

I ignored how my palms singed and darkened as I grasped the instrument, then turned around. I laid the horn over Lord Daen’s chest, moving one of his hands so that his fingers grasped it tightly. After all, he had earned this, even if at the expense of so much destruction.

As I did so, I noticed a single blemish under his shirt. I looked up toward his face, noting the pinched expression he held even while unconscious. I brushed a lock of strawberry-blonde hair from his face, tracing the scar he bore over his brow with the pad of my finger. Then I looked lower once more, inspecting the deep, jagged scar tissue that peered out over his heart. With the size of that wound, it should have been fatal, whether or not he bore a significant healing factor.

“Another mystery you force me to try and unravel, Lord Daen,” I said, unsure of the emotion in my chest. Excitement? Curiosity? Maybe a little fear?

At first, I’d suspected Toren to be a spy from Epheotus. After all, the readings my devices had picked up months ago indicated an asuran presence not of the basilisk. I’d moved to keep a more direct eye on him using my persona of Renea Shorn, of course, but I could not have predicted the outcome of our meeting and what would come in the months after.

Toren Daen could not be some simple imposter from the land of the gods, sent to replace a man none would miss. His actions and modus operandi were too linear to note some sort of swap, though there was a notable turning point in the aftermath of his brother’s death. His actions did not make sense for those of a spy. He was too eager to put himself in harm’s way; not nearly as concerned with masking his presence as his concerts attested. And he cared far, far too much for the people of his city to be a foreigner.

I closed my eyes, remembering how he’d played his violin in the midst of the storm on his first concert night. I’d watched from the storm clouds above, feeling as his music resonated deeply with something inside of me.

That scared me. How easily Toren Daen seemed to tear away my protections. But it also made something deep in my chest burn. How long had it been since someone had so effectively left me unsure and uncertain? Made every step an expanding aura of possibilities, leaving me unable to predict what would happen next?

I picked the young man’s body up, holding him in a simple carry that rested his head near my shoulder. Making sure his hand still clasped his prize, I left the temple, flying up into the night.

I felt that indignant anger in my stomach once more as I saw the destruction of one of my cities spread out before me. After Lord Daen had left Bloodstone Elixirs in haste, I quickly realized something was wrong. I’d convened with Cylrit, seeking reports that may be coming in from Fiachra before realizing the situation had deteriorated beyond expectation.

After that unique asuran signature of Toren’s had blossomed into something so powerful not even I could suppress it, I knew I needed to move. Whatever had been ravaging the City of Canals was beyond their capability to deal with.

I flew toward the Fiachran Ascender’s Association, the chaos below unfolding. Many stopped to look up at me in awe, dozens of unadorned men and women working in tandem with mages to put out fires, search through rubble, and maneuver around those dormant spots of red-green blithe mist.

That was odd in and of itself: that willful cooperation between mage and unadorned. I frowned, looking down at the restless man in my arms. Even in sleep, his jaw was clenched as if to ward off a blow.

“Indeed, you are a mystery. One I cannot seem to understand,” I said to myself, finally reaching my destination. That, more than anything, sparked something deep in my core.

The Fiachra Ascender’s Association had held against what had been reported as an onslaught of vicars seeking to spread their plague. The higher-ups of the place had quickly deduced that they couldn’t send fighters out and risk them becoming contaminated and had instead opted to activate all their wards, going into lockdown procedures as battles raged outside. They’d realized they couldn’t let the vicars into the Relictombs, lest the plague spread out of control.

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That had likely saved their lives. Saved the lives of everyone in Alacrya.

I settled down on the walkway just outside the building, noting Wolfrum Redwater–still masked under the cloaking artifact to appear as the ever-vigilant Xander–approaching hastily. His eyes flicked to Toren, then back to me before he bowed respectfully.

“Scythe Seris,” he said, looking at the ground. ”We’ve gathered more concrete reports on the events that took place these last few hours from the staff we managed to interview. It seems that the blithe mist was once far more active, but after a recent explosion, it went dormant. How do we proceed?”

“First, prepare a suitable room for Lord Toren Daen to recover in,” I said, handing the young man’s body to several rushing attendants. “His victory over the Vicar of Plague has ensured that this madness will come to an end,” I said loudly, enough that the scrambling attendants and staff members of the Ascender’s Association could hear me. “But now, we must account for the aftermath.”

I looked back at Wolfrum, whose eyes were still trained on the ground. “Cylrit shall arrive in a matter of moments,” I said, referencing the Relictombs portal. “Defer to him for further orders. I shall be working to staunch any further destruction.”

I flew back into the sky, scanning the City of Canals. I quickly located a larger patch of corrupted blithe mist, the effect coating a large portion of West Fiachra. I flew there, calling on the soulfire inherent to my blood.

I hovered above, noting the many bodies within. This had clearly been some sort of holdout for groups of mages, but I suspected they’d been overrun. I could detect faint, corrupted mana signatures within, the blithe having tainted their cores. No longer was it active, but the people inside still lived.

I furrowed my brow, activating one of my spellforms as I summoned domes of black light over the many bodies in a protective cover. The concentration required was absurd: I was practiced in covering myself in these layers; not other people.

But I had failed my citizens. These people had been corrupted because of my inability to predict Mardeth’s actions.

I unleashed a torrent of soulfire toward the fog of blithe down below. I suspected it would have been more difficult to burn away were it still active, but it simply evaporated under the decaying touch of my black-purple flames. The small bubbles of black light protected the people underneath from my attack, insulating them against the weathering decay of my spell.

When I was done, there was nothing left of the blithe. The people, however, continued to writhe and groan in abject misery. Stains of green and yellow still spotted their skin, each wracked with horrible pain.

Many buildings had been eroded to dust by my spell, likely erasing the belongings of countless people. Yet they would survive to live another day.

I turned in the air, noticing a woman with brown hair at the head of a contingent of many unadorned near the entrance to the plaza.

I furrowed my brow, noting the oddity. As my attention rested on these people, they all instinctually fell to their knees, my aura–even restrained–forcing them into subservience.

I reigned in my mana signature further as I slowly descended, making eye contact with the lead woman. She bowed as well, the only mage amongst them. Yet I saw a darkness in her eyes; a mute hatred that I’d seen reflected many times before.

This one hates the Vritra, I acknowledged internally. Deeply.

“I am Scythe Seris Vritra,” I said coolly, hovering above the woman as she knelt, her mousy brown hair escaping her haphazard bun. I surveyed the quaking nonmages arrayed behind the woman like a troop of soldiers. “I presume you have been working on relief efforts. I would have your name,” I ordered evenly.

She hesitated visibly. “My name is Greahd, Lady Seris,” she said. “The mist… it only tracked mages. I figured that I could rally the many unadorned of my district to assist in helping the city, my Lady.” Her eyes snapped to the mages far behind me.

I nodded slowly. “You shall be rewarded for your efforts, Greahd of East Fiachra,” I said, putting two and two together regarding the location of her home district. So many unadorned, all barely clothed?

Greahd shuffled nervously, looking back at the many, many bowing men and women behind her.

“My Lady,” she stuttered, keeping her head bowed. “I– I don’t wish for reward. Only for my people to be fed and clothed.”

I settled down on the cobblestones, walking forward as the woman made her request. The many people around her whimpered and curled inward on themselves as I stood not far from the kneeling Greahd.

“You are bold,” I acknowledged evenly. “To turn down a Scythe’s offer so quickly.”

Foolish would be a better description, but words had as much power as any fist. Especially in the aftermath of this tragedy, I needed to be careful of how I spoke to anyone.

Even the lowliest mage.

Greahd shuffled uncertainly, finally seeming to recognize the weight of her words and the many, many people behind her. “I apologize, Lady Seris. I–”

“It shall be done,” I said, waving my hand dismissively as I turned around, my mind focused on finding another pocket of blithe mist. “Your people shall be cared for. In turn, you will follow in my wake as I wash away this mist. You will be responsible for tending to those left behind after the fog is lifted as I continue my path.” I tilted my head slightly. “Am I understood?”

Greahd shuddered behind me. “We understand, my lady,” she said nervously.

I levitated back into the sky, quickly finding another patch of mist. It had invaded and coated an absurd amount of the city, over a quarter by a cursory estimate from the sky.

For the next several hours, I pulled on the mana in my core to wash away the devastation left by the blithe mist. I pushed myself to near exhaustion as I continued to push my spellforms, trying desperately to wash away every last bit.

The East Fiachrans followed in my wake, pulling people from the rubble and moving bodies toward designated resting spots. Gradually, more and more people emerged to assist the nonmages as the threat was understood to have passed.

I settled down near the banks of the Sehz River, feeling an ache in my core and a weariness in my bones from my nonstop expenditure of mana. I ignored it, looking out over the water as the sun finally began to rise.

“And still, the dawn comes,” I said musingly, allowing the warmth to spread across my bones. That was the greatest thing about the sun. In a world of utmost uncertainty and shifting tides, there was one thing I could count on. That the distant star would rise every morning.

I raised my hands to the light, watching as the morning rays cast shadows as they pierced smoke and dust. The beams of happy warmth parted around my fingers as they sensed the darkness in my blood.

I wonder if the sun is as distant as Toren says it is, I mused contemplatively, giving myself a moment to think. He seemed so confident in his statement that the great ball of fire we call our star is leagues away.

I remembered how Lord Daen’s eyes had flickered, not really looking at me when he’d spoken of distant worlds and the vastness of the cosmos, but past and beyond me. Yes, he certainly believed his words.

But the sun always felt like it was closer than that. Almost close enough to burn, but not quite. As if it took a tiny step closer, everything on this tiny sphere of rock and water would evaporate into scorched steam and molten earth.

That’s something Lord Daen certainly didn’t understand, I thought, cocking my head as I watched the Sehz River, which had overflowed its banks in many places and caused nearly as much devastation as the blithe plague as sections of the canals collapsed. Even despite its apparently peaceful nature, the mighty flow had caused such devastation and destruction when pushed past what it could afford. The sun does burn. And it always will, if one strays too close.

I was torn from my solemn musings as I felt the flash of familiar mana signatures. My head snapped to the side as I restrained my surprise from showing on my face. Could it be? How?

Leaving my musings on the shore, I flew over the banks of the Sehz, slowly honing in on that signature. It was faint and weak, exhausted and barely past backlash. But the simmering darkness within was familiar.

It didn’t take me long to find the source.

Caera Denoir rested on the banks of the river, two others by her prone form. She was soaked entirely in water, clearly having recently pulled herself from the water alongside her companions. She looked up at me uncomprehendingly as I approached.

“Caera, while it is always a pleasure to see you pushing yourself,” I said sternly, feeling a flash of worry as I took in her battered appearance. Had she been part of this defense? How did she get here? She should’ve been safe in her family estate within the Relictombs, not here amidst utmost danger. “It is imperative that you–”

I cut off as the girl launched herself at me, wrapping her arms around my back and hugging me tightly. She wept quiet tears as she held me, gripping me as if I were the last anchor in a raging sea.

“It was so dark, Lady Seris,” she muttered, but her voice didn’t break. It didn’t crack even once. “I thought– I thought–”

I looked past the girl to her companions. An unconscious girl with dark, braided hair that I distantly recognized, a single horn wrapping backward around her skull marking her as Vritra-blooded. And Sevren Denoir, who looked up at me with a scrutinizing gaze.

He only had one arm.

I slowly, mechanically, patted Caera’s back, realizing for once that I did not know how to comfort her. I felt the instinctual urge to push my protege away, her closeness reminding me of the masks I always needed in place. Only when we were alone did I allow the cover of Scythe to fall slightly with this young woman, but we were not alone. Yet I knew placing that barrier between us would be the wrong thing to do.

Instead, I opted for something in between. A half-shade. “It seems you have a story to tell me, child,” I said sternly, “I need you to tell me what happened here tonight. I was not made aware that you had rushed toward this city.”

Caera opened her mouth to reply, but it was Sevren Denoir who spoke up. “She followed me here, Lady Seris,” he said, meeting my eye. “I discovered what the vicar was planning, and hoped to meet with a friend of mine who was also on the trail. She would not have put herself in harm’s way without me. And I would not have survived, either, without her… hidden talents.”

Caera glanced back at her brother, blinking tiredly at his words. Then she looked down at the ground, a guilty cast on her face.

She was forced to reveal her basilisk arts, I realized, immediately cataloging possible countermeasures in case this fact was leaked further. But the fact that Sevren pieced it together…

I kept my eyes focused on the Denoir heir, seeing the meaning he silently conveyed. I nodded once, gently detaching myself from my protege.

I’d intentionally stoked Sevren’s anger against the Vritra for a long, long time. And now that he’d realized the secret his sister was hiding, it appeared he was looking at our past interactions in a new light.

A very intelligent man, that one. Foolhardy to the extreme, no doubt, and with little patience for the trappings of power. But intelligent. I could harness that. Push it towards necessary ends.

Some of my plans could probably be pushed forward a few years, especially if the young heir had truly made progress in his pursuit of aether as he had hinted to his sister.

But once again, my thoughts were brought to the soulful Toren Daen, the centerpiece of this entire event. Every effect pulsed out with him as their center cause, a man who grew in power at an incredible rate and drew everyone into his whirlpool of influence.

Like a star, I mused turning to observe the rising sun. And they are his planets. Pulled along by his actions.

Yet that analogy would place me as one of those planets, too. I’d have to find a better mental model, because things were not so simple.

And I wasn’t one to be swept up in another’s tide.

“It seems we have even more cleaning up to do than I initially surmised,” I mused, looking down at the one-horned girl, who was clearly unconscious. I would need to learn her story, too. She was one of Karsien’s, wasn’t she? Naereni, the Young Rat. “This city has been through the pits of hell. It is time we brought it some relief.”

What will change next? I wondered absently, looking up at the sky. The smoke from the dying fires all around blotted out what was left of the stars.