Toren Daen

The large blood iron doors rumbled shut behind me. As they finally closed, all the burgeoning thoughts and emotions and fears I’d been containing throughout that meeting threatened to break free.

I closed my eyes, then took a deep breath. Aurora may not have been here to help center my thoughts, but I needed to manage them anyway.

Agrona’s nauseating presence was gone. Though I was still within the jaws of the beast–while within Taegrin Caelum, I would never truly be safe–the High Sovereign’s discordant heartfire didn’t rattle my bones and disrupt my equilibrium anymore.

My mind jumped through all the events of the meeting room, settling deeply on Nico Sever. He pressed a near-constant aura of discontent and malice into his intent, each pulse showing me exactly what he felt.

And he was powerful. Perhaps the other Scythes dwarfed him in strength, thus exemplifying their distaste for him and his position amongst them. Compared to the others, he was weak.

But strength was relative.

As I’d stared at Nico, sensing the depths of his power, I’d realized something. At that moment, if I threw everything away–my reservations on life, my body, core, and mind–I might be able to defeat the newest Scythe. If I let everything burn in an inferno, there was a chance. Right then and there, I could stop the reincarnation of the Legacy.

I could almost imagine it. Were my blade to free Nico’s head from his shoulders, the initial goal I’d set for myself would be completed. The original bindings for my contract with Lady Dawn would see itself complete.

But I’d sobered quickly. No longer was my only goal killing Nico. I wanted to change this world for the better with what strength I could manage. And if I threw everything I had at this Scythe, I would out myself fully and utterly as an enemy of Agrona and his system. And with Cadell by his side while I stepped in the very heart of the serpent’s den, there would be no possibility for me to even strike him down.

So I watched, and I waited.

The hallway outside the meeting room was lined with paintings, each depicting scenes of war. Unlike Seris’ office in the Bloodstone Elixirs’ headquarters, these artistic renditions didn’t show the brutality of battle.

No, they showed glory. Glimmering armor and resplendent horns adorned the bodies of the fighters in frame. Black fires, deep shadows, and caustic mists highlighted each of their victorious positions. Sometimes it was over many enemies. Sometimes it was over a single one.

But each and every painting depicted a victor and a loser.

My eyes settled on the two paintings closest to the meeting room. In one, a Vritra-blooded man in thick, leather armor the color of midnight scales hefted a war axe that dripped with blood. His horns stretched forward from his head like those of a ram, long black hair accentuating his snarling visage. He radiated pride and power as dark fire flowed from every orifice, another mage broken beneath his boot. The loser’s horns were chipped and shattered, their face a mask of despair.

The inscription read, Scythe Kelagon of Vechor defeats his predecessor, Scythe Neghal, in single combat.

I pulled my eyes away from the menacing red eyes in the painting, bloodlust and battle frenzy portrayed perfectly on the still canvas. The next image sent a chill through my bones.

I recognized Seris’ features in the painting. Her sharp, attractive face with hair of liquid pearl. The same horns stretched from her forehead like an impala’s, but the demented sneer plastered on her face and condescending cast to her onyx eyes sent shivers down my spine. Black blood sprayed across her elegant face, tainting it with darkness. Her arms were bare in this one, too, revealing a network of serpentine tattoos that vanished beneath dark robes at her shoulders.

Beneath the heel of her boot, it was now Scythe Kelagon who lay broken. Or rather, his decapitated head, his mouth yawning in a silent scream. The eyes weren’t bloodlusted here. Just terribly empty as they gazed into my soul.

Scythe Seris of Sehz-Clar defeats Scythe Kelagon in single combat, ending the Redfeud War.

Seris had told me of this battle, long ago over tea. Though I had not known it at the time, Seris had recounted her own victory over Scythe Kelagon of Vechor.

“Each of these paintings depicts decisive battles won by Scythes,” a quiet voice said from behind me. “All in chronological order. From the start of the Sovereigns’ dominion over our continent to the present, all are accounted for. It is a great honor to be depicted in the Hall of Victories.”

Yet as I looked at the endless paintings, I didn’t see honor. I saw a grim reminder of the cycles of manufactured war that pervaded Alacryan history. One game after another, perpetrated by the Sovereigns in an endless repetition. I looked into the painting of Seris, trying to see any sort of familiar emotion in those eyes. I couldn’t.

“Do you think the Dicathian war will be included in these paintings?” I asked, turning to look at Retainer Mawar. “It’s all the Scythes’ victories, but they’re also all the victories in Alacrya.”

Mawar’s brow creased, the young girl seeming thoughtful. “I don’t know. I’ll have to ask Mother. Er, Melzri,” she corrected, looking. slightly abashed.

I smiled slightly, but didn’t add anything. I could sense the Retainer–whom I’d both battled and fought beside–wanted to say something.

“Was that really how Mardeth died?” she finally asked. “A stake through the heart?”

“It was,” I replied. Then I hesitated. I knew Mawar had borne a personal grudge with Mardeth that simmered deep and low. “How have you fared recently? After our last meeting, you weren’t so…”

“I’m fine,” Mawar said a bit too quickly. “I’m fine. It’s just… I heard about what Mardeth did to your home. I didn’t get to kill him, but I’m glad you did. I wouldn’t have ever managed it,” she added in a slightly small voice.

What happened, I wondered, looking at the girl in front of me, To turn this quiet, timid girl into the ruthless killing machine shown in The Beginning After the End?

“His actions still affect us all,” I said tiredly. “We’re still dealing with the wounds he left in Fiachra. And will be for decades.”

Mawar huffed slightly. “Melzri’s been pointing me toward all the temples in Etril. That’s been helpful; dismantling each one I come across. But it’s not the same.” Her face took on a more abashed expression. “I, uh, didn’t tell her about our fight in Nirmala. Or that you were the leader of that expedition along the Redwater toward Mardeth’s base. After your friend lost his arm, I realized how my interference–and Melzri’s interference–would ruin your chance at killing Mardeth, so I didn’t say anything. But at first, it was because I didn’t want to admit that… That…”

“Thank you,” I said softly, allowing the sputtering Retainer to break off. She’d grown more timid in the time I’d seen her. “I was wondering why Scythe Melzri didn’t want to carve my face off in that meeting. You probably saved me from a very uncomfortable confrontation,” I joked.

Mawar’s face split into a reassured smile, a bit of the girl I’d seen in the forests peeking through. Mardeth's wounds would last for a long, long time, but they would scar over.

The echoing sound of the blood iron meeting room doors closing shook me from my thoughts. Cylrit strode toward us, a stern, overbearing expression dominating his face.

“Spellsong,” he said curtly. “I have been instructed to keep you from trouble.” His eyes bored into Mawar, who wilted under the stare. “Taegrin Caelum holds vipers at every corner. It is unwise to engage with them.”

Mawar stepped back from me, her face falling into shadow. “I’ll be going then,” she said stiffly, her intent radiating quiet fear of Cylrit. She practically scurried down the hallway as the Retainer of Sehz-Clar’s impassive scarlet eyes chased her away.

I sighed with a hint of exasperation, feeling a note of pity for Mawar. “Do you have to be so blunt?”

“You do not understand the position you are in,” Cylrit countered. “You are esteemed amongst the retinue of Scythe Seris. And in the wake of Agrona’s words, that esteem has been forced even higher, regardless of whether it is deserved,” he said harshly.

I frowned, sensing the undercurrent of hostility in Cylrit’s words. “I did not ask to be here,” I said, squaring myself slightly as I felt my mana roil. “In fact, I’d rather be anywhere but.”

“But you are here,” Cylrit said, his face stony. “And now, my master must adjust her plans to compensate for your shortcomings. Thus I have been ordered to keep you on a short leash.”

I narrowed my eyes, feeling the pent-up emotions within from this entire day boil near the surface. “You sound like you have something to say, Cylrit,” I snapped, my patience thin. “You’re not one to hold your tongue in the same way as Seris. So just tell me.”

Cylrit oriented on me, something flashing in his visage. “That is Scythe Seris, Spellsong. This blatant lack of respect for her station is precisely why my master must extend herself so far today. The position you have put her in is untenable and dangerous, and you do not care. You endanger her with every step you take, and you still do not take action to remedy it.”

I tilted my head, absorbing Cylrit’s words as I squared off with him. Perhaps there was some truth to his words, but he was wrong to think I did not care.

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I opened my mouth to respond, but a rasping chuckle from the side drew me sharply from my thoughts.

“You’re like two axehounds fighting over their food,” Retainer Uto chuckled, his shadow-wreathed form loping toward us from the depths of the hallway. Bandages wrapped much of his body, a ragged cloak showing a single chipped horn beneath the cowl. “It’s so satisfying to watch you soft souths bicker and squabble with your tongues rather than your fists. It shows me exactly how far above you we stand.”

I felt my anger at Cylrit fade away as we were faced with this new threat, my focus shifting. Seris’ Retainer oriented on Uto in turn, his stern scarlet gaze boring into the lanky Vechorian.

“Retainer Uto,” he said sharply. “My master spared your tongue once. You should accept her mercy and cease your goading.”

Uto chuckled, a sound like nails on a chalkboard. “You know, I was one of your biggest fans back in the day, Cylrit,” he rasped. “We all loved the Victorious Black Tower and his brutality… but now? You’re everything Vechor despises.”

Cylrit brushed off the taunt without pause. “You were offered mercy once, Uto,” he said sharply. “Your attempts at provocation are shallow and empty.”

Uto exhaled a disappointed sigh. “I would’ve loved to see what that shield of yours could do back in the day. But now you’ve made yourself little more than a whipped dog. If this was the result of you turning traitor to your dominion, we should’ve never wanted you in the first place. Boring.”

Uto eyed Cylrit for a second or two, letting the statement hang. He seemed to be looking for some sort of reaction, but when he found none, he sighed dramatically.

Then he ignored Cylrit utterly, focusing on me. “But you know what else? Good ol’ Cylrit here left all fun behind–but there was another who knew how to really live it up. I always wanted to meet that Mardeth fellow. His methods really spoke to me, you know? All those bodies he left made things so much more efficient.”

I felt my hands tense into fists as my face settled into an even mask, my glare piercing the bandage-wrapped man. Seris’ words filtered into my head once more. Do not rise to provocation.

Was Uto’s only purpose in life to try and just piss people off?

“Cylrit is right,” I countered simply, a strained smile plastered across my face. “Your taunts are easy to see through, Uto.”

Uto stalked forward, leaning down to inspect me more as his power billowed out. I shrugged off his intent, my skill with such force surpassing his in waves. “You’re a shitty liar, you know. I can see how much you want to crater in my face. Like an unscratchable itch on your back that you just. Can’t. Reach,” Uto crooned, his grating voice like sandpaper wearing away my ears. “Tell me what Mardeth did, Spellsong. I wanted to know exactly what made you throw your temper tantrum.”

Unbidden, images of Sevren Denoir’s caustic stump of an arm loomed in my mind. I thought of the wounded mages I’d been healing throughout East Fiachra on a daily basis, each scarred by the events of the Plaguefire Incursion. And then there was Kori, Wade’s little sister who was broken by blithe.

I clenched my teeth, my pulse rising as I felt anger surge at his words. But I didn’t rise to his bait, instead matching his gaze as mana thrummed throughout my channels. Though I currently felt strong enough to crush steel, I showed none of that as I watched the Retainer.

“Was it a brother? A friend?” Uto prodded, trying again. “It’s always the loss of ones you lessers care about that drive you to such anger. So he took someone from you, I’m certain. But who, Spellsong?” he continued, his eyes watching mine for any change in emotion. When he found none, I felt his intent dip into disappointment.

It seemed Uto was a one-trick Vritra. He’d tried something like this with Arthur, too. That made it easier to weather.

“Leave us, Uto, or I will be forced to remove you myself,” Cylrit said impassively, thankfully putting himself between us. For all that Cylrit was an uptight prick, he was no Uto. “Though we may be destined to work together in this war, you can be replaced if necessary.”

Uto straightened suddenly. A flash of something that made me uneasy crossed his face, a deep grin stretching there that looked like it might swallow me whole. He looked from Cylrit to me, then back again, seeming to reach an epiphany. “Ah, I understand now! It wasn’t any sort of loss, was it!” He snapped his long, bony gray fingers. “Spellsong here was always with pretty old Seris, wasn’t he? Executing her plans?”

Cylrit’s intent flared as his face dipped into something deeper than shadow. “Keep my master’s name from your–”

“It makes sense why she has two pretty men with her at all times now,” Uto said, feigning realization. “She always seemed like the kind to take two at once. I understand, though. I wouldn’t mind tearing her dress off myself.”

As if to punctuate his horrid words, Uto’s long, sickly tongue licked his lips lewdly as he narrowed his eyes at us. I could almost taste the savage thoughts running through his head as he imagined the scene.

Cylrit stepped forward, mana billowing from him in turbulent, undulating waves as he prepared to fight Uto right in the hallway. Uto’s face stretched into a maniacal grin as he finally hooked his quarry, successfully raising Cylrit’s ire.

My hand snapped out to the side, forcefully holding Cylrit back as my emotions shifted. Uto’s last comment didn’t spark anger in me. Maybe it would have made me furious if I were as ignorant as Cylrit, but I had… perspective.

Seris didn’t need us sticking up for her ‘honor.’ She would break Uto herself, snapping off his horns and piercing his core after his battle with Arthur. She was strong enough to shrug off his blatant attempts at provocation and he would lose any hand that tried to touch her.

My Phoenix Will rose to the surface, my Acquire Phase blanketing my mana channels with warmth. Uto’s black heart pulsed visibly in my eyes as I stared serenely into his. I felt the victorious surge in the Vechorian Retainer’s intent as he believed his bait was successful. He smiled deviously, holding his arms out in an invitation to battle.

“Well, it looks like Seris’ leashed pups rush to defend their master,” he cackled. “Are you that desperate to defend the one you use to wet your–”

“I want you to think of this moment,” I said, my voice even and sharp. “I want you to remember it, Retainer Uto.”

Cylrit was barely restrained by my arm over his plate armor, but at the cool impassion in my words, he chanced me a single glance. Whatever he saw there made him recoil slightly in shock.

“Speak up, brat,” Uto goaded, sauntering forward as he unabashedly met my gaze. “I can’t hear you.”

I felt my lips curve upward slowly. Ever, ever so slowly, like the tenuous draw of a bowstring.

Killing intent was easy for mages to project. It was blunt, brute confidence in the outcome of a battle. Of the surety of your power. And while I usually needed the music of my violin to truly affect the ambient mana with my intent in more complex ways, I felt a surety radiate from the depths of my mind. It shifted in tandem with the anger at Uto’s words.

I had my own source of confidence that would alter my intent. I needed no instrument for this.

Uto’s mind never broke in that otherworld novel. When he’d been trapped in the dungeons of the Dicathians’ flying castle, nothing the torturer did had any effect. Only Arthur’s words–his goading about how Uto didn’t know why he lost–had any sort of effect.

Except an infiltrator into the castle activated the spells imbued in Uto, causing them to detonate before the wretch’s mind had a chance to break.

I’d see about fixing that.

“Remember this,” I said, feeling my body relax as a contented air pressed through my limbs. “When you’re chained to a wall, alone in the rancid dark, I want you to feel an… itch.”

“What nonsense are you prattling about, Spellsong?” Uto rasped, though I could almost taste his confusion.

I took a single step forward, and for that instant, it seemed that I was taller than Uto. I was a foot shorter than him, but the shadow I cast in that moment was darker than any he’d ever used to conjure his magic. A deep, deep uncertainty arose from the depths of Uto’s mana core as my intent pressed into the air. I projected the serene, tranquil surety of my words. A soothing, lulling cadence of ambient energy threaded through that single step. I gave him no anger. No killing intent. Only peaceful calm.

I smiled gently at the monster in front of me. “Remember the words you spoke to me when you’ve lost everything,” I said. “I want you to go mad. It’ll scrape against the inside of your mind in every single instant. Like an unscratchable itch on your back that you just. Can’t. Reach,” I mocked.

Uto stepped back into a defensive stance, his aura flaring as he finally wrenched himself from the moment. “I have no idea what nonsense you’re talking about, lesser,” he snarled, a slight wildness remaining in his eyes that showed how unsettled he was. “But I think I’ll take my time ripping you to–”

The doors to the meeting room behind us slammed open, the dark power of a Scythe rippling out. I felt myself deflate slightly as Seris strode from the room, the other Scythes slow to react as her fury was wrought plainly on her face. I stepped leisurely to the side as she strode between Cylrit and me.

“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, her eyes flicking to Cylrit, whose face showed a bare, uncertain expression in the crease of his brow. “Your mana was palpable in the air. Explain why there has been a disruption in our meeting.”

Cylrit did not waste the opportunity. “Retainer Uto made comments defaming your honor and station,” he said succinctly. “They were of a nature dark enough that it warranted intervention and punishment. In your absence, I sought to levy punishment on your behalf.”

The other Scythes–save Cadell, who seemed to fill the entire doorway as he impassively observed–shuffled out.

“And what were those comments?” Seris pressed, tilting her head and raising a perfect silver brow.

Cylrit looked deeply uncomfortable. “I apologize, Scythe Seris.” His eyes darted to me, a mutual understanding there. “I do not believe they bear repeating. Perhaps later, away from other ears?”

Seris’ arms settled over her stomach, her expression simmering into something quiet and deadly. “I see,” she said. She looked at Uto, inspecting him as if he were an ant. “It seems that Retainer Uto has not learned the folly of a wagging tongue. And it appears he is in need of a teacher.”

Dragoth moved to stand beside Uto, who had been slowly inching backward as Seris loomed. “Now, Seris,” he said chidingly. “You’re not saying you can’t have a little fun, are you? You’d really attack my Retainer over petty words?”

“I do not attack, Dragoth,” Seris said dismissively. “I discipline. When dogs snap at their betters, they are struck to teach them not to make such mistakes again. And you have failed to whip your dog.”

Dragoth’s smile slowly fell away. “It wouldn’t be wise for you to continue this track, Seris,” he said. “Learn to live a little, and maybe you won’t lose your temper so quickly over harmless banter.”

The two stared off for a long, painful moment. The air felt tense, the other Scythes watching with interest. Even Nico seemed intrigued by this interplay.

Then Seris slowly smiled. “There was another who said something in the same vein to me once upon a time,” she said, her slight smirk a blazing contrast to the portrait behind her. “Except he pushed and pushed, you see. He truly did not understand the game he was playing.”

The yawning eyes of Scythe Kelagon’s decapitated head seemed to glow at Seris’ words, crying in empty horror. Though the expression Seris bore could not have been more different from the sneer plastered on her pastel painting, I could see a flash of that same predatory hunger flicker in the depths.

“Keep that in mind, Scythe Dragoth,” Seris said casually, striding forward. She exuded no aura, but Dragoth inadvertently took a step back anyway. “People forget the impact of words too often.”

Indeed, they do, I thought as Seris began to glide down the Hall of Victories. I pierced Uto with a stare as we walked past, giving him a soft smile that elicited a snarl in return.

A dog indeed.

I hoped Arthur appreciated the coincidental gift I’d just dropped into his lap. At the same time, though, I also hoped that Uto wouldn’t fold too quickly beneath that itch.