Toren Daen

I knew the secret to the Retainer’s weapon, detailed at length in a book from another world. Spells sent toward Cylrit would gravitate toward the colossal blade, each absorbed and dispersed with ease. Any physical attack I used would gravitate toward it as well, pulled off course by the handsome man’s weapon. The Retainer, however, could only cause spells of a single element to gravitate at once.

So I decided to do a little test. In The Beginning After the End, Arthur managed to defeat Cylrit with a mix of teamwork from Sylvie alongside a quick swap of elements to confuse the man’s absorption abilities.

I wish I could see Sylvie obliterate him, I thought with grim amusement, the edge of my lip quirking up. Maybe another time.

Cylrit’s massive sword emanated a pressure all on its own as he leveraged it down at me. Through the enhanced senses of my will, I could feel the ridges of the Retainer’s intent.

But there was one thing Arthur failed to do during his fight.

I waved a hand, summoning a dozen fireballs that hovered statically around me, each large enough to fit me inside. I felt their heat caress my cheek as my focus narrowed, the blood of the phoenix flowing through my veins.

I waved my hand down, and all the fireballs around me began to arc inwards, curving to swallow the Retainer in their sweltering heat. His eyes tracked them without worry despite the substantial amount of mana imbued. He raised his sword, swiping it in a half-crescent arc. I felt and saw as my fireballs lurched off course, slowly being absorbed into the massive greatsword as the gravitational aura of his weapon demanded.

I tilted my head, narrowing my eyes as a frown crossed my features. Cylrit looked down at me, clearly annoyed at my testing. But I wasn’t done yet.

I raised my hand, pointing my index and pointer fingers at the Retainer in the shape of a handgun. Sound mana coalesced at the end of my fingertip, a slight influx of pure mana making the little projectile ripple with an oil-like sheen. I engaged my telekinetic emblem, feeling pressure build up along the tip of my finger.

“Bang,” I whispered, and the spell shot off with the speed of a bullet and an eruption of sound.

To his credit, Cylrit swerved his sword in the path of my vibrating sound bullet, absorbing it into his weapon. But I hadn’t stopped. Flame and sound bullets fired out intermittently in rapid succession as they surged toward the Retainer. Not powerful enough to hurt the hovering man, but enough to annoy him and draw blood were they to make contact with bare skin.

I watched with a measure of awe as the Retainer switched which spells he could absorb with the speed of lightning, alternating between blocking and absorbing fire and sound at a speed that would have been a blitz to a normal human eye. Through it all, I gauged how quickly each switch took.

He’s too fast at changing it for me to capitalize on with ranged attacks, I thought with a note of irritation. I should’ve expected that. One last test, though.

At the end of my barrage of bullets, I conjured a single bead of plasma. Instead of aiming near center mass as I had before, I pointed my finger near Cylrit’s foot, further away from his sword.

I let loose the solid plasma bullet, the spell accelerating in a beam. The Retainer swung his sword, and I watched as the plasma–a combination of both fire and sound–reluctantly curved toward his sword.

“Is this all you can do, Spellsong?” Cylrit sneered, pushing away the wafting smoke that surrounded him.

I settled back into stance, hefting Inversion and the shrouded blade that emerged from it. “We’ll see,” I said, feeling a wave of confidence.

That was one thing Arthur never tried during his battle with the Retainer. Cylrit’s massive sword had a lesser effect on plasma spells than it did on single-element attacks. It made sense, after all. If his weapon caused one element to gravitate toward it at a time, then a combination spell would have half the force exerted over it.

I could exploit that.

I launched myself upward, flourishing my plasma blade. It flashed in a crimson streak as I aimed for the Retainer’s arm.

I felt as my attack was pulled off course into the Retainer’s sword, red plasma blazing as it impacted black metal. I streaked up and past Cylrit, landing feet-first on the ceiling. Without waiting for another beat, I blurred back down, adjusting my course with a few subconscious telekinetic pulls. I swiped with my saber once more, and though the annoyingly handsome Retainer bound it with casual ease, the fist coated in oscillating vibrations that streaked for his jaw wasn’t so easy to ignore.

Both of my attacks were pulled toward his sword once more, the Retainer no doubt changing his sword to absorb sound magic. His eyes flashed as he expertly kept control of the battle.

Until I flushed the sound mana from my shrouded saber, leaving it coated in fire instead of pure plasma. Suddenly free of the Retainer’s pulling force, it slid past his defense for the barest moment, the searing edge leaving a scorch mark along his dark metal armor at the same time my fist impacted his sword.

I fell to the ground again as Cylrit backed up slightly, giving the scorch mark on his black armor a glare.

“I think it is time I finally fought back, Spellsong,” Cylrit acknowledged grimly.

I was about to open my mouth to respond, but Cylrit was suddenly in front of me, moving faster than my eyes could process. His fist rocketed toward my face in a mirror of what I’d done not a minute before. I panicked, bringing Inversion in a defensive sweep to try and ward off his blow. Cylrit, seeming to sense this, thrust his sword out far to the side.

My attempt at blocking was disrupted as my saber was forcibly drawn away, leaving me wide open.

Cylrit’s gauntleted fist cracked solidly against my jaw. My telekinetic shroud shattered as if it didn't exist before the dark metal plates ground against my face. Stars raced across my vision as my body went flying from the impact. I bounced hard off the warding wall, a ripple of dispersing force vibrating out along the panels of mana as I slumped to the platform once more.

“You are quick to understand my weaknesses,” the Vritra-blooded mage said cooly, standing imperiously not far away. “But not quick enough to see your shortcomings.”

I groaned as I pushed myself to my feet, feeling my heartfire soothing over my cracked jaw. Did he need to hit me so damn hard? “And what might those be?” I snarled, feeling fire race along my veins.

“You shall see,” Cylrit said unhelpfully, hovering slightly above the ground.

He blurred forward once more, his massive sword swinging. I barely ducked the attack, feeling off-balance, but that opened me up to the pendulum-like kick of Cylrit’s plated boot. I rolled to the side, pushing outward with a nimbus of fire and sound. The Retainer opted to absorb the fire, bracing against the vibrating waves. I spun, using a few telekinetic pulls to truly amp up a tornado of force, and then I slashed out with Inversion in a sideways cut.

I could only see my own attack as a blur of red, but Cylrit was somehow faster. He moved his sword into a defensive position, the impact of my blade on his sending a heavy jolt up my arm as it pushed him back.

I didn’t let up. Using a few telekinetic pulls on the nearby ground, I launched myself at the Retainer as he skidded backward, conjuring solid feathers of sound, fire, and plasma all around me. I threw them like they were darts, using my telekinesis to maneuver them past his sword.

The Retainer grunted in annoyance as my spells peppered his armor. He could only block one element at once, and my precise telekinetic control made him a poor matchup against me. I wasn’t truly doing any sort of damage, but it felt damn good for a reason I couldn’t explain.

“I have underestimated you, Spellsong,” Cylrit said, his intent radiating barely leashed anger. “Allow me to show you proper respect.”

Then he threw his sword behind him, settling back into Vechorian guard stance even as he continued to slide back.

I only had a moment to process the action, a flash of confusion crossing my thoughts. My spells all surged after his weapon as it arced to the end of the training room, following it like a school of burning, vibrating fish.

Feeling an opportunity arise, I used a powerful telekinetic pull near the Retainer’s feet. He didn’t have his weapon anymore. That meant he couldn’t protect himself.

Only as my telekinetic pull’s white outline gravitated toward Cylrit’s massive sword did I realize my mistake. Instead of a controlled acceleration, I rocketed toward the Retainer at a speed I couldn’t halt. He’d changed his sword’s mana signature to attract my telekinetic spellform instead of fire or sound! That was why all my spells surged away with his sword, not just sound and fire!

On instinct, I tried to use a telekinetic pull on the ground behind me, but that only served to speed me further toward the Retainer as that spell, too, moved toward his retreating blade.

I only had a moment of grim horror to brace my body as I saw Cylrit calmly wind up a solid hook with perfect precision, his face still cast in a way that looked like a rod was shoved too far up his behind.

Fuck, I thought as his plate gauntlet approached my face in what felt like slow motion. It sucks so much to regrow teeth.

Then the black metal crunched against my nose in a wave of pain, and everything went dark.

Seris Vritra

I watched as my Retainer’s gauntlet impacted Toren’s face in a near-comical display. With my level of strength, I was able to see the resignation in the young man’s eyes as he realized in real time what had led to his loss.

Despite that, I still felt a small surge of worry as Toren’s body went tumbling past the stationary Cylrit, flipping end over end as if he had been clotheslined at high speed. He tumbled limply a few times as he rolled along the platform, before eventually coming to a stop near the edge of the warding barrier. I laid a hand along the control panel of the training ground as my Retainer’s large black sword returned to his hand. With a bare nudge, the shields dissipated.

I hovered up past the device, moving closer to the stern man I’d raised to be my closest aide. “Thank you, Cylrit,” I said coolly. “I believe I understand where to go next with Spellsong’s training.”

“Of course, Scythe Seris,” my ever-loyal Retainer said, bowing deeply. When he unfolded, he had a strange twist to his sharp features I did not think I had seen before. “Will Spellsong be able to continue? I was not lenient in my lesson.”

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

I raised a brow at Cylrit. We both knew he could have stood to withhold his power more in that last exchange. “You had a proclivity to aim for his jaw. And not hold back, either.”

Cylrit’s expression became carefully passive. “His jaw is sharp enough to ward off my blows. And he, too, seemed to want to crater my face in. I only met the rules of engagement.”

“That is not a fair comparison, Cylrit,” I chided, feeling slightly amused. “You are armored up to your head. Toren has no choice but to aim there.”

“Understood, Scythe Seris,” Cylrit replied, bowing his head–but not his pride. “I will strike… lower, next time.”

I looked down at Toren Daen’s body, which was splayed limply amidst a crater. I hovered over to him, my hands clasped in front of my stomach.

Toren’s nose was jutting at an odd angle, a visible imprint of Cylrit’s gauntlet stamped across his face. He groaned slightly as he came back to consciousness, blinking tiredly as he stared up at me. Those eyes seemed to glow slightly, even in this underground training arena.

He winced as he shifted, seeming to remember his wounds. Then he raised a hand to his nose and forcibly set it again, a stream of blood leaking onto his clothes.

“Damn it,” he muttered as orange-purple light streamed along his crown, healing over the stamp of Cylrit’s victory. He glared at my Retainer, who flew at attention behind me. “Did you have to hit me that hard?”

Interesting, I thought, a quirk to my lips. It seemed Lord Daen’s aetheric healing abilities needed to be consciously engaged, as opposed to the automatic nature of many mages’ soulfire repair. Toren did not have a true healing factor as many Vritra-blooded mages did, but more an ability to consciously heal himself. I filed that knowledge away for future inspection.

“It was necessary to impress upon you the nature of your shortcomings,” Cylrit lied, his face a mask of stone.

Toren’s stare told my Retainer exactly what he thought of that statement as he spit out a tooth. Yet when he worked his jaw once more, he was missing none of his pearly whites.

I did not know why these two disliked each other so, but I’d have to find a way to remedy the situation. I couldn’t afford to go into the war with the men beside me tearing at each other’s throats.

“And what exactly did I do wrong?” Toren huffed, pulling himself to his feet.

“You did not do anything wrong,” I corrected. “Merely made missteps in battle. But before I tell you how we shall proceed, I need to know something.”

Toren was busy brushing his clothes free of dust as he absently replied. “Yeah?” he said, trying to work a smudge of dirt from his loose pants.

“That form you utilize, where your eyes glow with runes and your tattoos burn against your skin,” I said, hovering a bit closer, “What exactly is its nature?”

Lord Daen’s hands stalled as he brushed his shirt. His eyes flashed through half a dozen emotions in quick succession. Surprise, wariness, resignation, fear… and then they were forcibly buried a moment later. But he could not hide it all. Not with how expressive he was.

So many emotions this man feels, I thought. You feel so at ease wearing away my masks. Let us see if you are ready to relinquish some of your own.

Toren was slow to relinquish his secrets, but I had quickly understood what routes I would need to take if I wished to peel apart this puzzle. He was a being of utmost reciprocity.

He felt guilt for unmasking me. I would use that as I needed.

I let myself settle onto the ground. “It is a Beast Will, is it not?” I asked quietly, remembering the High Sovereign’s words.

Toren was the sort that only bent so much before they snapped back like a door slamming shut. If I wanted to know more, I needed to pace my questions.

Toren crouched, grabbing the strange white horn he used as a magical focus from where he’d dropped it on the ground. “Many, many months ago,” he said, still low, “I was dying in the forest outside of Fiachra.”

I pulled up short, surprised by the solemn note in the young noble’s tone. My inner questions of how I could approach this conversation to extract what I needed bled away in an instant of surprise–something that was irritatingly common with this young man. Dying?

“But as I bled into the grass, I was approached by a… power,” Toren said, testing the words on his tongue. “Something beyond anything I’d ever seen before. It touched me; strengthened me and healed me,” he said, a hand brushing his sternum.

My gaze lingered on the deep, fiery red lock of hair along Toren’s head. It faded to a silvery purple, almost mirroring my own shade of hair. And the two burning coals he called eyes. “A phoenix,” I said surely, remembering the grim day when Agrona himself had uttered the words.

Toren nodded. “She was.”

Those were the only two words he offered, but they held a weight that seemed to draw me closer.

He wasn’t telling me the full truth. There was something more; something deeper to this puzzle than a failed spiritual possession attempt as Agrona posited. From the power the young man was able to display while using the Phoenix Will, I felt certain that he was–in the terms of the Dicathians who pioneered the art–a Legacy Tamer, rather than a Forged Tamer. The power he bore was likely passed down willingly.

I thought of those red chains that bound his arm, and the value the young man put into oaths. More tantalizing pieces.

“I see,” I said, drifting forward and brushing out a bit of dirt from Toren’s shirt where he had missed a spot. It was important to always portray oneself as clean. “And when did you begin to master this power?”

“I used it for the first time not long before my preliminary ascent,” he said darkly, turning away from me. “To settle a Blood debt.”

I breathed out. Ah, the Joan incident. That statement matched what my sensors had detected. But Lord Daen’s words sent my thoughts down a separate track.

Toren had a notable effect on the Relictombs, as evidenced by the words of the Unblooded Party and Sevren Denoir’s strict adherence to the man. At first, I wasn’t certain what it could be attributed to. But if Epheotus had towering buildings of glass and steel–skyscrapers, as the young Daen had stated, then it made sense why a zone appeared with such strange architecture under his influence.

These revelations made my heart beat a step faster and my thoughts swim with what else I may uncover. A most wonderful puzzle indeed.

But that was irrelevant right now.

“In regards to where you may improve, there are several aspects,” I said, floating around Toren and inspecting him up and down. His combat form was clean and precise, showing he’d been taught advanced martial arts by someone. Toren’s spellwork was also noteworthy, combining all his strengths into one cohesive style. But it had two pivotal weaknesses.

“You rely heavily on your mobility, Lord Daen,” I said, hovering back in front of the man. “You must learn to fight when there is no other step to take and no directions to run. As a soldier, you may be forced to fight alongside a team. But if you were to use your normal style of combat while fighting amongst a group, you would leave a gap within a battle line. Cylrit capitalized on this reliance on your mobility to great effect.”

Toren hesitated visibly. “I’m not a Shield,” he said slowly. “I don’t think I’d be playing that role in battle.”

I waved my hand dismissively. “You can be whatever you need to be with your Dicathian spellcasting,” I said absently. I ignored the step back he took at the mention of his organic magic. “And that is one of the greatest strengths you bring to the board, Lord Daen. A healer, a Striker, a Caster, and a Shield all at once.” I smiled slightly at the slightly unsure look on the young man’s face. “It is fortunate you are a native of Sehz-Clar. I have no doubt the other Scythes would have leapt at the opportunity to sink their teeth into you, but mine sank in first.”

And when my teeth sank in, they didn’t let go.

“And the second weakness?” he pushed, meeting my eyes as few dared to do.

“Your bladework,” I said simply. “While you have clear form and instincts, I noticed this in your clashes with not just Cylrit, but the vicars in the front of Bloodstone Elixirs. You have not fought many people sword-to-sword, have you, Lord Daen?”

The man looked surprised at my statement, his eyes flaring. “No, I haven’t,” he replied honestly. “I am most accustomed to fighting beasts in the Relictombs, not actual mages.”

“Then that shall change,” I said primly, settling a ways away. “This war shall be against people, not beasts. People think, scheme, and plan. And so you shall learn to fight people.”

I held out a hand, engaging my magic to summon a dark, dark mana blade. When it phased into existence, I turned around, ready to push Toren Daen to the utmost.

Except there was a solemn hardness to his features as he stared at the white horn in his hand. “I haven’t killed anyone… innocent, before,” he said quietly. “I’ve always managed to act in line with what I think is right, but that won’t hold soon. I wonder what lines I’ll cross in this war.”

It was a simple question. One that every true soldier asked themselves eventually as they faced the reality of war. The Dicathians were not savages; just poor souls caught in between two warring asura clans. And as agents of one side, we were bent to attack the other.

But the seriousness with which he said it–the earnesty that seemed to follow in Toren’s every burning footstep–it made him feel so, so warm in a way I did not like. Too many warriors only asked this question when they were already knee-deep in the blood of their foes: but not Toren.

He seemed to scrape away at my masks with each casual word. I could feel my iron will soften at his question. Part of me wanted to forget training entirely, instead devoting the rest of our time to answering that very question he’d posited. After all, I’d spent many a year devoting myself to finding the right path within that swampy mire of right and wrong. I could tell him how I had finally drawn forth the willpower to do what needed to be done if it meant freeing Alacrya.

I wanted to know what he’d think of my reasons. Would he think me justified?

But as I allowed myself those thoughts for a moment, I felt something else, too. My inner shackles loosened–and that meant all of them. A shadow in my blood rose; a creature of dark scales and venomous fangs. And it hated Toren’s light. Wanted to snuff it out, because they were anathema.

I grabbed that writhing serpent, reasserting control of myself, before shoving it deep, deep within my psyche. I buried it like every other secret I’d ever held, then threw away the key.

I let out a deep breath. Cylrit was right. Toren Daen was dangerous to all I had built, but not how I had initially suspected.

“Prepare your weapon, Lord Daen,” I said sternly, breaking him from his quiet contemplation. “It is time for training, not for questions.”

Toren shook his head, pushing whatever consuming thoughts he bore into the distance. He held the powerful white horn before him, then conjured another one of his crystalline mana blades as he settled into a combat stance. His eyes flicked to the humming black edge of my sword. “I’ve got a solid healing ability,” he said warily, “but I’m not sure I can regenerate a severed limb.”

I felt that buried part of me–the side of scales and wings and fangs that I’d kept contained since the war between Vechor and Sehz-Clar–stretch my lips into a slight grin despite my attempts to keep it locked away. “There is always a time to test those limits, Lord Daen,” I said with a dash of amusement.

—

In the end, I did not deprive Toren Daen of one of his limbs, though I did work him through every bit of bladework that I possibly could.

He was currently splayed out on his back on the floor of the platform, heaving for breath and drenched in sweat. One of his arms tried to wipe away the sweat from his brow, but it only served to smear his forehead with a bit of dirt.

He seemed to have an inordinate amount of mana in his core, which I utilized to the best extent for the past several hours. But it seemed that the man’s stamina gave way before his mana.

A pity.

I furrowed my brow as I watched Toren roll himself onto his hands and knees, my breathing not out of place by a single measure. It would not do for Lord Daen to push himself so far that he broke rather than grew. This would be enough for the day.

Cylrit hovered down near Toren, a large bottle of water and towels in his hand. For the first time, I saw a measure of sympathy in my Retainer’s eyes as he offered the items in his hands to the prone Daen, though he did so stiffly.

He’d been trained by me as well. He knew it was a grueling process.

“I said something in error earlier, Spellsong,” Cylrit muttered as Toren limply grabbed the water bottle. “I will not aim lower in our spars. You suffer enough.”

Toren shakily pushed himself to his feet, weakly gulping down the bottle of water. He didn’t seem to hear my Retainer’s words over how immersed he was in drinking.

“Thank you,” he groaned, before collapsing back to the ground again. “I feel like I could sleep for a week,” he moaned pitifully.

“Unfortunately, that option is not available to you, Lord Daen,” I said seriously, hovering closer to my exhausted pupil. I hesitated for the barest instant, remembering the confrontation with Varadoth. The horrible, horrible power, and what I knew was a deeply traumatic event for the man lying beneath me. “A Summit has been called for a week from today at Taegrin Caelum, bringing together all the major players in Alacrya to discuss the war. From Truacia to Etril and Vechor to Sehz-Clar, every Scythe and Retainer shall be in attendance to discuss the fate of Dicathen.” I took a deep breath. “It was called by the High Sovereign himself.”

Toren’s eyes instantly shot open as he looked at me, his pupils narrowing to mute pinpricks. Though my own breath had remained steady in the hours that we had sparred, I felt my chest shudder as I saw a kindred terror in the young man’s eyes. I swallowed. “And you have been… invited.”