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Seris Vritra

The tide seemed unnaturally still as my steamship coasted into the harbor of Burim Bay. The engine deep within puffed toxic fumes into the air, a legion of black smokestacks behind me heralding the Alacryan advance.

Cliffs loomed high above me, the canyon walls of the mouth of the Sehz River seeming eager to swallow our ships whole. A massive cavern ate into the side of one of the cliffs, just barely revealing the city far within.

Burim was admittedly impressive from afar. From where we docked, I could see the points where magma continuously flowed into the ocean after every lavatide, cementing into more and more land. Yet the sole harbor of Darv was set a ways away from the core of their city: after all, if it were too close to the mouth of the cavern, it risked being overrun with magma whenever the lavatides struck.

A true marvel of engineering, I thought appreciatively. To take what should have been an impossible circumstance and twist it into one of their greatest strengths… I suppose I must commend these dwarves for their ingenuity.

I’d received regular updates on the status of the battle within the cavern on my communication artifact. A small contingent of our steamship fleet–small enough that we could effectively skirt around detection from Dicathian scouts–had been stationed near one of the exit points of the Grand Mountain Strait. We’d hidden in the shadow of the Earthmother’s Isle–the sole island past the Grand Mountains that created the strait. And perhaps an hour past, I’d received final confirmation of the city’s capture.

“Cylrit,” I said to my Retainer at my side, “tend to the ships and secure their landing. Ensure they are anchored safely and securely, and that no remnant Dicathians attempt to sabotage them.”

My trim Retainer nodded shortly, keeping his gaze forward. I knew, deep down, that I could always trust him to follow through.

I hovered off the bow of the steamship, allowing the ambient mana to carry me aloft. The sea wind whipped at my hair as I flew toward the yawning mouth of Burim. The opening in the cliffside seemed like the den of a predator, but no predator within could match me.

I entered the jaws of the cave, my eyes tracing the stalactites that hung from the ceiling. Remnants of battles hard-fought still lingered. Wisping eddies of mana and spellfire drifted across my senses, telling a tale of their own. The scent of smoke and blood was heavy in the air. I knew from experience that the scent would diminish after a few days–as it always did in the aftermath of war. But the scars on the people would last far longer.

The dwarves stopped and stared at me as I slowly flew through the cavern. Those stares–most filled with fear and apprehension–became my armor as I gradually floated toward the central crater of Burim. It had been half a century since the Redfeud War, but the similarities I witnessed were striking.

There is one true constant in war, I thought grimly. And that is sacrifice.

Olfred Warend was waiting for me on one of the central platforms within the city. My high heels made no sound as they settled onto the hard stone, grounding themselves once more.

“Scythe,” Lance Balrog said, his wariness writ clear on his face.

“Lance,” I replied primly. “I take it your endeavors here have been successful?”

The dwarf snorted. “Aye, you could say that,” he said. “We’ve rounded up the former leadership of Burim. They’re under the watch of Jotilda Shintstone, and the city now belongs to the rebellion.”

I felt a rising sense of pity somewhere far in the depths of my soul as my gaze panned around, taking in the scene of the dwarves as they hurried about, trying not to look at me. You say it belongs to the rebellion, I thought, looking back at the Lance, but we both know who holds the power here.

It was a strange thing, that pity. Not so much the emotion itself: more that I allowed myself to feel it at all. My common course was to acknowledge such feelings, then suppress and dismiss them immediately afterward. But for some reason, I was indulging myself just a bit more in the emotion.

That sent my thoughts on a different track of thought. The reason for this change in myself was easily discernible, but as I quested out with my mana senses…

“We will have to work on an agreement as to the placement of my people,” I said to the magma mage before me. ”But before that, I must ask. Where is Toren Daen at this moment? He was the sole fighter among our forces that accompanied you in your mission, yet I do not see him here.”

Olfred’s brow rose in surprise at my question, but then his face darkened and his lips pursed. “Now that you mention it,” he started slowly, “I haven’t seen Toren for a long while. I saw him and his metallic beast fighting through the city, but I forged on ahead of the main battle group. I would have expected him to report here after the battle was done, but…”

My pulse quickened slightly at the dwarf’s words, and a chill ran along my spine. It was irrational, of course. I was certain that Toren was more powerful than any within this cavern barring myself. He would not be in any true danger here. But still, I could not help myself from feeling that spike of worry.

“You say he has not reported in?” I asked sternly, shifting my hands so that they were clasped before my stomach. “When was he last seen? He must be found immediately.”

As I said the words, I withdrew an item from my dimension ring. A small communication artifact settled into my palm–a twin to the one I’d entrusted to Toren. I began to cycle mana into it, attempting to make a connection.

The Lance ground his teeth. “I shall send word through our troops askin’ for his whereabouts,” he said. “I have no doubt Toren Daen is fine, though.”

I felt my worry cement as my communication artifact failed to connect. It was more likely that Toren’s was damaged in battle than anything truly happened to him, but…

“Toren Daen?” a voice said questioningly from the side. It sounded almost… sad. “I saw him a ways back. I tried to help him, but he was too far. I didn’t see what finally happened, but…”

My neck slowly turned as I focused on the speaker. It was a pot-bellied dwarf with a fiery red beard, standing amidst a small crowd. The onlookers parted like spooked wogarts as my gaze focused on the dwarf like iron.

“What did you say?” I questioned sternly.

The dwarf stumbled back, clearly not expecting this level of attention. His face paled as my aura flared involuntarily. “I– I saw him, Lady Scythe. He destroyed a spell that coulda killed us all. I– We– We were stationed near the teleportation gate, but they were going to wreck it. He went out. Saved us. But he collapsed to his knees afterward, and someone tried to lop his head off with an axe,” he stuttered out, staggering backward.

I felt the pit fall out of the bottom of my stomach. My mana flared outward, pressing into the atmosphere with the weight of a tombstone. My hands clenched as my eyes widened, my emotions unfurling in my chest. “You’re telling me,” I said, my voice low as the grave and cold as death, “that you watched Toren die?”

My heart beat painfully in my chest as my emotions became messy. Distantly, I was aware that nearly everyone in a fifty-foot radius of me was grasping at their throats, struggling to breathe as the weight of my intent escaped my control. If Toren… If Toren was dead…

One of my first inventions as the Scythe of Sehz-Clar was a viscous, mana-conducting fluid that had the consistency of honey. In that instant, I felt that my thoughts only followed at the speed of that fluid–so slow and uncertain.

Deep within my core, I felt something dark resurge. All these emotions I felt… I needed to release them. To take them out on something. On someone. I needed to kill.

Even Lance Balrog was not spared from the tempest of my mana as my inner turmoil pulled itself to the surface. That darkest part of myself–that vindictive shade of my soul that had ruled me during the Redfeud War–it was here. And it needed–

My thoughts were cut cleanly through as a familiar creature fluttered before me. I blinked, my breathing uneven as I stared at the strange bronze construct. It looked like a bird crafted entirely of bronze, and its eyes burned in an unsettling way.

It circled around me, crooning piteously. The noise was surprisingly like the puff of the steam engines used within our ships.

The relic, I realized, my thoughts finally finding purchase. As a stable outcropping of stone lends itself as a foothold to a climber, I finally found a place to anchor my thoughts from their freefall. The relic that Sevren Denoir gifted to Toren. If it is here, then that means–

The construct of burnished bronze darted away as I finally focused on it, flitting back down into the chasm. It looked back at me with those eerie, burning eyes, an intelligence far too deep staring back as it flew away.

I blinked, settling my breathing. It wants me to follow, I realized, taking a few steps toward the ledge. And if it wants me to follow, then there’s only one place it could be taking me to.

I’d gradually reined in my intent as I regained control of my thoughts, leaving the dwarves around me gasping for breath and running from me in droves. Only Lance Balrog remained, coughing and hacking. He stared up at me, his eyes blown wide with more surprise than fear.

“I must go. I’ll be back soon,” I said stiltedly, the words uttered faster than I would have preferred.

I darted up into the sky, surging after the retreating construct of the ancient mages. I knew that item well. After all, I’d been the one to protect Sevren Denoir from the fallout of his theft of the item from the Relictombs. He’d managed to smuggle it past the main inquirers, but hadn’t been aware of the hidden ones at the entrances to the Second Layer. I’d extended myself to erase those reports and readings, granting him a freedom he would never know.

And then Sevren had given that very relic to Toren Daen. In his hands, it had changed shape from a simple feathered brooch to something remarkably lifelike. That was one of my first indicators that Toren was even more special than I’d first assumed.

I focused on those thoughts as I followed after the animated relic. I kept an iron grip on my emotions as it led me through the cavern, its avian wings sounding like a thresher as they flapped.

I sensed him before I saw him. Toren’s mana was always difficult to detect without consciously searching for it: he was good at reining in his presence. But right now, it felt like the beacon of a lighthouse amidst a storm.

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The relic settled down on a decimated platform, crooning sadly as it nudged the young man’s body.

I felt my control of my emotions crack as I looked down at Toren. He was leaning against a chunk of stone, his hands splayed limply to the side. In each of his hands was his violin and bow respectively, but there was a defeated cast to that. He barely clutched them.

His head was hung low, his hair shadowing his face. He radiated an almost palpable aura of quiet despair that made my heart rise in my throat.

All around him were decimated corpses of dwarves.

“I can sense them, you know,” Toren said softly. “Each and every heartfire.”

I settled down on the platform, walking forward so that I stood over Toren’s limp form. For the first time, I realized that his hands were trembling as they clasped his instrument. The relic on his shoulder crooned mournfully, nuzzling the side of his head with its beak.

Toren raised his head, looking at me with hollow eyes. He leveraged an arm, pointing off toward one of the other stalactites hanging from the ceiling. “Over there. Three just died. One after the other, their lifeforces went out. Their intent stopped weeping. Just like that… Like a candleflame facing a slight breeze.” He tilted his head, his skull lolling to the side. “A fourth, back the way you came. That one was sharp and abrupt. Like an axe splitting wood.”

I stared down at Toren, feeling a solemn sort of dread as it all came together. His hands shook where they held his violin.

I didn’t know how long I stared down at him, tracing his decimated features. The strange sort of lifelessness that pervaded him.

Then he chuckled lightly, his shoulders trembling. “And at least a dozen passed away just now, too, far below,” he said, sounding amused. “I can’t even tell after a while. It’s not individuals. More like paint being smeared away. And it all just… releases. Like a person is so desperate to feel as much as they can in that last little bit before they’re gone. They scramble to feel everything they can.”

My hands clenched where I kept them clasped, instincts in my chest warring with reason.

I slowly knelt, my dress soaking up the blood and dust everywhere. I rested on my knees across from Toren, feeling the bitter scrape of the encrusted earth beneath me.

Toren’s eyes drifted blankly to the side, observing the dead dwarves around us as he refused to meet my eyes. “They were brothers, Seris,” he said emptily. “Brothers. Not just soldiers.”

The relic on Toren’s shoulders wilted, seeming to cave in on itself as his arms shook. I felt an overriding sensation I hadn’t felt in decades slowly work through the depths of my soul, pressing against my throat and making my silver tongue feel heavy in my mouth.

Because I’d done this. It was necessary, of course. Toren could not participate in a war without getting blood on his hands. But that did not push away the sorrow of it all. The innocence lost.

“Play me a song, Toren,” I asked quietly, staring at his violin where he clutched it like a newborn child. “I want to hear your music now. Not about me; not yet.”

I want to know what you feel.

Toren looked at me with hooded eyes, seeming unable to move anything besides his head. “My hands are trembling, Seris,” he said quietly. “They haven’t done that since I was a boy. Before I was a surgeon and a musician. Nothing I can make will be beautiful enough to satisfy you.”

“Play your music anyway,” I pushed, reaching a hand out and resting it gently on Toren’s knee. “Let me know what you feel. What every death tastes like, how every loss of life sears your soul. That is all I need. Please.”

In my guise of Renea Shorn, I arrayed countless depictions of war and brutality across my rooms so that I would never forget. Even as a Scythe, Cylrit’s presence served as an eternal reminder of what I needed to be; of what I could become if I let the shackles I kept around my blood loosen.

But Toren’s music was more than all of those.

I looked deep into the young man’s eyes, subtly imploring him. I swallowed, feeling strange. I didn’t demand his acquiescence, as I did when I was his Scythe. I just… asked. Pleaded for a song.

Toren slowly raised his hands, each shaking as if they were supporting a thousand tons of stone. He hesitantly settled his violin against his collar, a bit of dust and blood streaking onto the perfect Clarwood finish as he rested the bow haphazardly against the strings.

I lowered my head slightly, my hand clenching around Toren’s knee as he took a deep breath.

And then he began to play.

It was not music that I heard. It was barely sound at all; more of an attack on my eardrums as Toren’s arms shook. It sounded like the sort of thing a beginner would attempt before immediately discarding the instrument in horror.

But somehow, it came together to make something that wasn’t ugly. I could sense Toren’s disgust with himself over his music, but I could not see it.

It wasn’t disgusting. It was terrifying. Terrifyingly beautiful as every drop of intent slammed into me like hot coals.

Loud, streaking notes were punctuated with fluctuations in Toren’s intent. Of his fear and hatred. Every low dip–discordant and off-key–seemed to symbolize another dying life. The kiss of the bow and violin strings weren’t even, melodic timbres. They were the jagged draw of a chipped blade as it tore through flesh, leaving meaty chunks behind instead of a clean cut. The bow and strings fought each other like desperate soldiers seeking a way out instead of two brothers seeking a way forward.

Perhaps that was ugly. Perhaps it was horrendous. But the message and emotions within were so whole and true that I felt I was seeing war for the first time again.

They were screams of agony that scorched their way through my soul. This symphony of two wrenched old, departed memories from the depths of my psyche, pulling themselves to the fore as the paradoxically beautiful attacks of his music thrummed across my blood.

Adieu to innocence, I thought, closing my eyes as Toren’s emotions bombarded me in waves. A fitting song.

Toren Daen

The next day went by in a blur. A dizzying mix of moving prisoners, shifting positions, and cementing our place in Burim. In the wake of the capture, there had been so much to do–cataloging the city’s resources, allocating positions, ensuring points of entry and exit were watched, and more.

I went through the motions in half a daze. A distant part of me wondered how this would affect the outcome of the war and my knowledge of the future. But every time I closed my eyes, Hornfels Earthborn’s broken expression burned itself into my retinas.

I feared becoming my enemies. I’d made oaths to others that I wouldn’t compromise on my ideals, but no matter how many times I went over my actions in my head–no matter how many times I justified why I took the steps I did, all that responded were visions of Hornfels kneeling over Skarn’s body.

“You aren't Kaelan Joan,” Aurora reaffirmed for the hundredth time, her voice soothing and compassionate as ever. “You did not kill for the sake of killing, Toren. You are not a monster.”

I didn’t respond to my bond, even as I felt her phantom hand on my shoulder. My footsteps were heavy as I trudged through Burim’s prison complex. The prison itself was built into the wall of Burim and surrounded by several lavaducts, granting it superb security.

All around me, the captured nobility of Burim were penned into their cells. Most were cold and dark without any sort of comforts, but a few had been afforded luxuries like blankets and reading material. As I loped through the passageway like a wounded wolf, the eyes of the prisoners seemed to glow as they nervously followed me.

Seris certainly had plans for these hostages and how to leverage their use against the Dicathian council, but I hadn’t asked. Since she’d comforted me a day ago, I hadn’t seen her. She was too busy ironing out her new position in Burim and ensuring her power was respected.

I flashed back to when I’d… failed to play my music. For all that I’d experienced, my inability to play even a single cohesive note made something in me crumble. Just from the memory, I needed to force my hands to stop shaking. The wretched sounds that I’d produced could not be called music.

It was ugly. So, so ugly.

Will I ever be able to play again? I wondered, my breathing becoming a bit uneven. Or will my hands always tremble when I need them steady? Will I only be able to profess brutality and broken chords?

I reached the end of Burim’s prison soon enough. Lusul Hercross perked up when he saw me where he was stationed outside of a specific cell, snapping a salute as he came to attention.

“Sir,” he said seriously. “The prisoner hasn’t changed their behavior in the past day. The transition from the caverns was smooth and without issue,” he said in a clipped tone.

I turned tired eyes to Lusul, looking him up and down. He shifted uncomfortably from the focus in my stare. “Thank you, Lusul,” I said, my tone coming out weary. I paused for a moment, wetting my suddenly dry lips. “Why don’t you go speak with Elder Shintstone for now? She’s currently looking for people who can help keep the Alacryans and dwarves from tearing each other’s throats out.”

Lusul shifted nervously, his nearly pink eyes darting to the cell behind him. “Apologies, sir, but who will watch the prisoner in my absence?”

“‘I’ll be speaking with the prisoner for the time being,” I said with a sigh. “Feel free to return in an hour or so. Am I clear?”

Sensing the weight in my words, the Hercross gulped. “Understood, Lord Daen,” he said. He sent a look back toward the cell that seemed pitying as he began to stride away.

“Lusul,” I called after the man as he walked away. “How do you play your music when your hands are uncertain?”

Lusul paused, his intent radiating mild surprise. He turned around, his brows raising. “I’m part of an orchestra, sir,” he replied after a moment. “Even if my part isn’t perfect, the others around me are able to pick up the slack. It’s more common than you think.” He gave a short bow before walking away, his footsteps echoing out on the stones.

I took a deep breath in as I was finally alone in the corridor. My body felt loose and tense at the same time; a paradoxical dichotomy roiling across my veins.

I steeled my nerves, then opened the cell door, stepping inside.

Albold Chaffer blinked in surprise as I entered, a long shadow cast from the light behind me. When I shut the door, nearly every bit of light evaporated.

“Hello, Albold,” I said. “It’s about time I had a talk with you.”

The captive elf was lounging on a bed–he’d been afforded one of the nicer accommodations–and flipping through a book. My eyes darted to the side, noting a well-hidden bar of metal that protruded from the side of his bedframe.

He was not supposed to have that. How he’d smuggled what was essentially a crowbar into his cell I didn’t know, but neither did I particularly care if he’d been planning some sort of escape attempt.

The elf’s expression darkened as he pulled himself into a guarded stance. “I won’t tell you anything, Alacryan,” he spat back. “I don’t know how you know about my relationship with Elder Virion, but if you think–”

I strode past the elf as he stood resolute, the action stupefying him into silence. I stared at the bare desk he’d been allowed, settling my own resolve. Then I sat in the chair, turning back to the Chaffer.

“I’m not here to ask you about Virion,” I said, “but something entirely different.”

Albold’s eyes narrowed as he kept himself near the back wall, far away from me.

I sighed, then looked at my hands. I’d washed them of the red that stained them. My body and clothes were cleaned of their burns and grime, but if I let my vision unfocus, all I could see was blood.

“Yesterday, I committed a sin I never thought possible of me,” I whispered, my eyes tracing the outline of my palm. “The actions I took… they were beyond anything I’ve done before.”

Albold was silent, his unease radiating from him as I spoke. I looked up at him, my eyes narrowing slightly. “I’m telling you this, Albold, because I don’t know what I’ll do next. What I can do next. I already crossed one line yesterday.”

Albold pressed himself even more into the wall, trying to get away from me as he clenched his teeth. Absently, I realized my intent was wafting into the air, carrying the underlying thread of madness that suffused my mind. I wondered what Albold felt in that.

“I’m not telling you this to make conversation,” I said after a long, pregnant pause. ”I’m telling you this because I don’t know what lines I’ll cross next if I can justify them in my mind. I’m good at that, Abold. Good at lying to myself when I really, really need to.”

Albold opened his mouth, about to retort with something fiery, but what I did next made him crumple to the floor. I engaged my Phoenix Will, calling Soulplume to the fore. The light of runic feathers banished the darkness around me, each glowing with an ochre tinge. I knew my eyes burned like stars as they pinned the elf to the stones. My aura flared slightly, pulsing with the rhythmic beat of a heart.

Albold trembled as he stared into my eyes. I knew his senses as a Chaffer were superb. I wondered, then. What did he see when he stared into the eyes of millennia of insight? Eyes that mirrored ages long past; of the rise and fall of nations? The power barely contained in my mana core was older than the elven race itself.

Could he feel that, too?

“You are going to tell me,” I said, my voice melodic yet simultaneously dead, “all you know of the Trailblazer Division.”