Toren Daen

Seris considered me for a moment, seeming genuinely surprised by my even response. “These people need a symbol, Toren Daen,” she eventually said. “A solid foundation from which to rebuild. And there is none better than you.”

I looked at the milling people as they nervously went about their tasks. Smoke still seemed to linger in the air, and at every loud sound, more than a few heads snapped to the source in fear. I found myself clenching the horn tighter.

Did I want to be that kind of symbol? Could I even be that kind of symbol?

I understood what the Scythe meant. When in the darkness, there was a power in rallying around a single light. That was what she was trying to create. That was what she would try to make Arthur.

I remembered my speech to Mardeth as I flung him from the sky. The grand proclamations I’d made of where I stood and who I was as I tore him apart. Of how I was the voice of the voiceless; the song for the unsung.

But was I truly? As I stared across the broken ruins of my home, I wondered. I’d failed these people. Perhaps I’d slain Mardeth, but I hadn’t stopped the plague. I hadn’t been everything I claimed myself to be.

My thoughts snagged on that train of thought. Karsien, Hofal, Naereni… If this city needed a symbol, they were better suited.

“What of the Rats?” I asked numbly. “Naereni, Karsien, Hofal and Wade? They’ve fought for this city for longer than I ever have. Why are we–”

A single look at Seris’ stony expression told me all I needed to know. It was carefully blank, but not in the usual way. There was an almost… reluctant, pitiful cast to her elegant features.

“Oh, no,” I said, feeling my face go pale. I stumbled to the side, bracing myself against the window frame. “Are they– are they all–”

“The Rat and his close ascending partner sacrificed themselves to give the Young Rat and your friend, Lord Denoir, a chance at the source of Mardeth’s power,” Seris said with a solemn note to her voice. “Those lucky few survived, but not unscathed. There have been… complications regarding the Young Rat. Ones that even I did not anticipate.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, my breath shuddering. For the first time during this conversation, I felt Aurora’s distinctive touch against my mind. A measuring, comforting warmth that sought to cushion me against the welling grief.

I’d made very few friends in this world by necessity. But the ones I had made were closer than any others.

Images replayed in my mind as if on tape. Hofal’s contemplative face as he puffed at a pipe, musing about some old fact of architecture surfaced in my mind. Nearby, Karsien smirked wryly, quietly mocking his friend for his unique tendencies. Yet even the Rat himself listened intently as Hofal told his stories, even adding his own unique flair with his mist and theatric mask.

They’re dead, I thought, feeling my heart constrict like a vice. If I were faster, if I had fought Mardeth sooner–

Then you would have been dead, Aurora’s stern yet empathetic voice cut across my thoughts like a knife. Without the assistance of your Second Phase, you would have fallen regardless. And the first entrance into that well of power is always the most dangerous. If our purpose had not been united at that moment in the street, it is likely your mind would have been consumed.

So there was nothing else I could have done? I quietly seethed, the ambient mana warping as I struggled to maintain a grip on myself.

Perhaps there was, Aurora allowed. Perhaps there was not. You can never truly know; not without a sure grasp of Fate. And because we do not, we will only drive ourselves to madness questioning our actions.

I ripped my eyes away from the crowds of displaced Fiachrans as they tended to their city. Seris was quiet, giving me a modicum of time to pull my thoughts together.

“Can I talk to Naereni?” I asked. “Please, I need to…” I trailed off. What did I need to do?

I needed to be able to think.

“I understand your grief, Lord Daen,” Seris said simply. “When you are ready, speak with me further.” The austere woman, her hair shining in the sunlight, glided back toward the door.

She paused at the edge of the doorway. “I quite enjoyed our earlier partnership,” she finally said, a note of something I couldn’t decipher in her voice. “It would be a shame if that were to be left behind.”

—

I trudged through the halls, my shoulders slumped and my mind awhirl. I felt a deep, stretching tiredness from the depths of my soul that made me want to simply lay down where I stood and sleep it all away.

Through it all, the comforting closeness of Aurora’s bond gave me something to latch onto. To pull myself forward with as if it were a rope trailing from the back of a ship.

I trudged past a few workers as they hastily carried papers through the halls. They stalled the moment they saw me, their eyes going wide.

“Spellsong,” one muttered under her breath, bowing slightly. The other looked like they were ready to go to one knee.

I passed them, their words of mumbled awe flowing in one ear and out the other.

How did you cope with death? I asked Aurora absently, thinking of Karsien and Hofal. The asura are so long-lived and wise. What can I do?

Aurora’s shade kept a comforting hand on my back as I turned a corner. “We asura… are not accustomed to loss,” she said with a quiet voice. “It is rare that our kind suffers death, and it is almost always the result of a life being taken. For ones with lives so static, the sudden erasure of those close to us is not an experience we manage well.”

I looked up as I reached my target room. Then this is something I must face on my own?

Beyond the door in front of me, Naereni waited.

“I will always support you, my bond,” Aurora said softly. “I cannot manage your pain for you, but my hand will always be there to grasp yours when you need it.”

I exhaled, forcing back a stray tear. Thank you, I thought, pushing open the door.

The room inside was as lavish as the one I’d awoken in. Tall, broad windows let in copious amounts of light, and intricate wallpaper lined the walls. Naereni was sitting awkwardly in the center of the bed, her shoulder-length black hair falling in loose tresses across her face.

She was tossing something up and down, the item flashing silver in the light. A rat–presumably one of Wade’s familiars–was curled near her feet. One of her legs was wrapped in a cast.

The Young Rat looked up as I shut the door behind me, her intelligent eyes flashing as they scanned me over.

She smiled, but it was a weak mask. “They use pure silver for their drawer handles,” she said, her voice small as she hefted the item in her hand. It looked like an intricate door knob. “Pure silver, Toren! Imagine how much this would sell for!”

I walked forward silently, sitting myself down in a chair near the bedside. Naereni’s smile felt distinctly forced; a pained attempt to mirror her usual cheer. It fell quickly when I sat down, the facade melting away as the silence stretched between us.

“How did you kill him?” Naereni eventually asked. There was a surprising hint of deep venom in her tone that I’d never heard before. “Wade’s been keeping an ear out. I’ve heard the staff talking about you. ‘Spellsong killed the Vicar of Plague!’ they say. ‘Ended him right inside of his own temple! Lord Daen is the one that stopped this horrible disaster!’” The Young Rat’s arms trembled as she clutched the silver doorknob tight. The rat chittered sadly by her side. “Did you make it hurt?”

I clasped my hands over my knees. “You remembered the Oath I swore?” I said quietly, “That I would nail Mardeth to the effigies of his false gods?”

Naereni looked up at me through her bangs, unshed tears glimmering in her eyes.

“He begged for his gods in the end,” I whispered. The white horn that had ended Mardeth’s life pulsed rhythmically at my belt. “They abandoned him. Even as I staked his heart to the temple walls.” I paused. “But I wouldn’t have been able to win that fight without the destruction of that crystal.”

Naereni’s shoulders shook as she turned away from me. “The Sovereigns didn’t just abandon Mardeth,” she said with a watery voice. “Kar and Hof… they stayed behind to give Boulders, One-arm, and I a chance to destroy that crystal. Without them,” she continued, her voice finally cracking. Tears streamed from the edges of her eyes as the dam holding them back finally burst.

I moved closer, laying a comforting hand on the young woman’s shoulder as she softly wept. I forced my own eyes closed, restraining the urge to weep as well. Karsien and Hofal had been some of my only true friends in this world. The only pillars of support that made each step worth taking.

Naereni sniffled, her face twisting. “I felt them die, Toren,” she said, anger pulsing through her tears. Raw, unending fury. “I felt their mana snuff out. Hofal went first, but his was all at once. But Karsien’s was just like his mist. Slow and drawn out. Painful.”

The Young Rat’s hand shifted to a pendant around her neck, one I hadn’t noticed before. She grasped it, pulsing some mana into the silver necklace.

And to my surprise, a horn fuzzed into existence as if appearing from fog. The onyx spike wrapped backward around the left side of her skull like one half of a tiara. Naereni looked at me, revealing the gruesome sight along her right temple.

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A jagged protrusion marked where her other horn would have been. Instead, a shattered black bump marked where the horn had been wrenched free.

My breath caught.

“I awakened something, Toren,” she said. “But it was barely enough, even then. And when Scythe Seris came… She told me I had a choice. I could go off to Taegrin Caelum to be subject to our High Sovereign’s will. Or I could wear this necklace, hiding what I was. What I could do. And in turn, I could continue to help all the people of my home.”

Naereni’s eyes pierced my own in a way that almost made me recoil with the intensity. I’d stared down the Vicar of Plague. I’d matched intent with Varadoth, the Voice of the Sovereigns. And I’d trained under the burning gaze of Aurora Asclepius.

But the raging flame that surged in the Young Rat’s eyes was enough to match any bonfire I could create. “Hofal told me to do something before he died,” she whispered. “His last words. He told me to tear this corrupt structure down to its uttermost stones. And he wasn’t just talking about that Vritra-forsaken crystal.”

I swallowed, Naereni’s eyes holding mine like a vice. “And what will you do?” I whispered, feeling goosebumps along my arms.

She finally turned away from me, looking back at the window outside. “I’m glad you’re with Dicathen, Toren,” she said at last. I opened my mouth in surprise, but the Young Rat forged on. “Karsien was the first to figure it out. The single spellform you have. Your strange ability to use more magic. And all your other secrets. I wasn’t so sure at first. But now I see what that means.”

Naereni continued, leaving me quietly unsure. “Scythe Seris said that she couldn’t tell everyone about what Sevren, Caera, and I had done. She needed to quell panic and keep everyone focused elsewhere. But I know a woman planning a heist when I see one, Toren. How she kept Boulders’ manifestation secret. How she’s keeping mine secret. And now how she’s trying to make you some sort of symbol. I don’t know what she’s planning, but I’m going to be a part of it.” Her eyes bored holes into me once again. “Hofal won’t have died in vain. His last wish is my Oath, just as those you swore.”

—

My feet carried me down the stairs of the Fiachra Ascender’s Association. Each footfall seemed to echo as my thoughts ran like thick tar.

The eyes of the staff followed me as I wandered toward the ground floor. Their quiet whispers haunted my steps; the reverence and bits of fear I sensed utterly alien to me.

But there were causes worth more than my own comfort. End goals that outweighed my desire to be understood and accepted. And this city had suffered because of my presence; because of my actions.

It was only right that I sacrificed something of my desires in turn.

I didn’t know when Cylrit–Seris’ retainer–had entered the building, but unlike the Scythe, his aura was easier to track, so that was where I would go.

He’s powerful, I thought absently. I’d grown adept at piecing apart mana signatures and subconsciously divining deeper strength in tandem with hiding my own, and though I was still a ways away from the Retainer, I couldn’t discern the depths of his strength. Certainly stronger than me, even in my First Phase.

Cylrit was speaking curtly to Xander, sternly directing him toward another group of administrators who stood at a respectful distance, keeping their heads down in the presence of the Retainer.

TurtleMe’s description of Cylrit did not do him justice. I distinctly remembered Seris’ Retainer being described as something from “a maiden’s dream,” but reading words from a page and seeing a live depiction were two entirely different experiences.

I’d never been one to be insecure in my looks, and as I progressed in core level and strength, I’d conservatively call myself quite handsome. But Cylrit looked like an amalgamation of every single male model I’d seen in my previous life.

He had short, dark hair that contrasted his ivory skin, with twin horns jutting up from above his pointed ears. A jawline as sharp as any blade was further enhanced by his jet-black metal armor, which was adorned with a long, greyish cape. Scarlet eyes watched everything with a modicum of detached presence.

I frowned, immediately disliking him. And from how his cool, impassive gaze flickered over to me, I could feel the same emotion barely radiating over his intent.

“Retainer Cylrit,” I greeted tiredly, striding into the empty space between the Vritra-blooded man and the many nervous attendants. “Could you lead me to your Scythe? I have an answer for Seris now.”

Cylrit’s eyes narrowed. “You speak my master’s name too freely, Spellsong,” he said brusquely, his intent warping slightly at the perceived disrespect. “She is as much your Scythe as she is mine.”

I brushed the suffocating air aside. “Scythe Seris, then,” I snapped back, still feeling drained from my conversation with Naereni.

Cylrit held my tired gaze for a moment, his expression unchanging, before turning around. “Follow me.”

—

The silence that stretched between the Retainer and me was deafening. His armor barely made a sound as he moved with the practiced efficiency of a warrior, his gauntleted hands clasped behind his back. The resounding echo of metal steps on stone was the only sound that I could hear as we slowly walked toward a clandestine meeting.

Cylrit opened the door to a familiarly lavish meeting room. Inside, swathes of natural light coated every surface. Outside, the sun rose high in the sky, smiling down on every place its light could reach.

I couldn’t pinpoint how that made me feel. Should I be angry that the sun shone now, when everything was so dark?

Scythe Seris was preparing two familiar teacups, the porcelain flashing in the sunlight. Nearby, a large kettle sat unbothered.

The Scythe turned near-perfect eyes toward us as we entered, not pausing as she gently dropped shavings of red leaves into a strainer over each cup.

Cylrit stood ramrod straight, then bowed deeply in a gesture of respect. My eyes flicked to him uncertainly, then back to the leader of Sehz-Clar. Her eyes commanded me quietly, imploring me to do something.

I opted to nod, bowing only slightly. I still felt uncertain of how to treat the Scythe: follow protocol? Or speak to her as she spoke to me?

But bowing; kneeling? It rankled something deeply inside of me. It scratched at an open sore I didn’t know existed.

To my credit, Seris simply tilted her head, the rays of shifting light causing her silver locks to take on a more pearlescent undertone. “Have you had time to think, Lord Daen?” she asked, her eyes silently commanding me toward a nearby plush chair.

I robotically followed her quiet order, moving to stand beside the chair. Behind me, I sensed as Cylrit unfolded his bow, his unchanging scarlet eyes staying focused intently on our interaction.

“I have,” I acknowledged, but didn’t yet sit. The Scythe herself had opted to remain standing as she carefully maneuvered the Redwater tea leaves through the cup.

Seris’ eyes slowly shifted toward the teakettle, then imploringly back to me.

I exhaled through my nose, reaching out with my telekinesis emblem. The kettle slowly hovered into the air, before a puff of flame sputtered into existence underneath it.

The edges of the Scythes’ lips curled up imperceptibly.

“Feel free to sit, Lord Daen,” the silver-haired beauty said, settling herself down into her plush, highbacked chair. “You’ve hardly been out of backlash for several hours. I would be an ungracious host to force you into something so uncomfortable.”

I did as she allowed, sinking into the soft cushions. I felt tense in a way I’d rarely experienced, and I could not tell if it was due to the close presence of the powerful Scythe or the understanding of what I was going to do.

My focus darted to the teacups the Scythe set between us on a low table. The sound of flickering fire was all that echoed throughout the room.

“I can’t tell if drinking a cup of Redwater Blend is insensitive or appropriate considering the circumstances,” I said, referencing the mana-laden tea that the Scythe was preparing. It was the same kind I had drunk several months back with Renea Shorn as we met to discuss my concerts. Renea–Seris–had explained to me that the leaves were nurtured along the coast of the Redwater, gaining enhanced properties in the process.

Seris crossed one leg over the other, her dark dress shifting as she settled into a relaxed, almost imperial posture in the tall-backed chair. “Those things are not always mutually exclusive,” she said. “What we view as socially acceptable is merely a function of perception.”

Through perception, power is leveraged. And through power, self is enforced, I thought darkly, the Second Doctrine rattling around in my head like an irritating itch.

The water began to boil. Wordlessly, I snuffed out the flame underneath, hovering the kettle toward the cups between us.

Except in the barest instant I’d diverted focus toward the kettle, one of the small porcelain teacups had vanished. My eyes tracked up, noting Seris inspecting the leaves inside, her pristine, delicate fingers wrapping the cup gently. I hadn’t been able to sense her taking it. Hadn’t been able to detect her movement at all.

She looked up to me, then held the cup out in quiet command.

Feeling dreadfully uncertain, I allowed the telekinetically controlled kettle to tip forward, pouring boiling-hot water into her cup. I quickly followed suit with mine, my hands clenching over my lap.

“You do not appear angry, Lord Daen,” Seris eventually said, swishing her cup to allow the tea leaves to fully spread along the strainer. “In the wake of discovering my true identity, many have felt betrayed, used, and led along as a puppet. Yet you are unerringly calm.”

I exhaled through my nose, averting my gaze from the Scythe’s piercing stare. I centered myself by counting the patterns along the wallpaper, allowing my thoughts to come more clearly.

“We all have our masks,” I replied evasively. I looked back at the tea in my hands, watching as streams of red slowly seeped through the clear, hot water. Like blood soaking through a white cloth. “I haven’t been honest with you, either,” I said, feeling another flash of discomfort. I seemed to feel that emotion more and more every time I interacted with the woman across from me. “It would be hypocritical of me to cast stones from a glass house.”

“Cast stones from a glass house,” Seris echoed across from me. I refused to meet her gaze, and I felt Cylrit’s distrust from a mile away. “Another apt saying I must take from you.”

The Scythe slowly removed her strainer from her tea, setting it to the side. The quiet clink of the metal mesh on the porcelain spoonrest seemed to echo like a gong.

“And why do you claim your house is made of glass, Toren Daen?” Seris finally asked, shifting so her chin was supported by her delicate alabaster fingers. Her look was terrifyingly curious and contemplative. “You have so readily stripped me of my masks, and yet I know so little of you.”

I realized belatedly that I hadn’t taken a breath in a long time. I forced myself to inhale evenly, then exhale my stress.

I tapped my fingers along my leg. What did I say in response? Seris had seen a great deal of my abilities. My Phoenix Will, my rapid rise in strength and power, and even Aurora’s Relic. And while I assumed she was working against the High Sovereign, that did not mean she would not offer me up if it ensured her covert rebellion would eventually succeed.

Didn’t Seris Vritra tell Agrona of Grey’s survival? I thought suddenly, feeling a spike of true fear. And if she’s reported anything of me to Agrona–

My spiraling worries were cut through by the sound of the Scythe sipping at her tea, the sound–so human–shearing through my train of thought like a sword through paper.

“It is not anger you feel,” she mused. “It is fear.” She leaned back into her chair, seeming quietly satisfied for some reason I couldn’t understand. “Considering how little you bow and scrape, it is quite surprising that you should be afraid of me. I think I should be offended.”

“No,” I interrupted, my hands tapping along my knees. “It is not you that I fear,” I blurted, my mouth working faster than my mind.

Seris lowered her cup of tea ever-so-slowly. “I see,” was all she said.

I felt the urge to punch myself at the blatant admission. I wasn’t the best at political conversations, and for some godforsaken reason, Aurora was distancing herself from me during my conversations with the Scythe.

“You came here because you reached a decision on what is required of you, yes?” Seris finally said, making my tensed shoulders slump with quiet relief.

I looked back toward the tall windows, seeing the rescue and disaster protocol efforts outside once more. My thoughts drifted back to Naereni and her grim, self-sacrificial determination. “I can be what these people need,” I said quietly, my hands tensing perceptibly over my teacup. I hadn’t taken a single sip. “I can be a symbol for them. A sort of rallying light. But only this once.”

I watched as the red seemed to deepen within the teacup. I was going to kill Nico Sever, and once I completed the act, what would come after?

I found that I did not know. But the chances that my actions would splash back onto those I cared for were too high. That was what had just happened with Mardeth, after all. Those I held close were burned for living in this city.

“I live in a glass house, Scythe Seris,” I said after a moment. “And there are fires hot enough to burn even glass.”

Renea Shorn [https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/xz2a6821fa7eggv4gqzsc/Renea.png?rlkey=ujicqtbjkzzgi0oirtn8sdy7t&st=yu265dec&raw=1]